aqgfr 


:  .. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
ROBERT  B.  HONE YM AN,  JR. 


THE 

WORKS  OF  BRET  HARTE. 


COLLECTED  AND  REVISED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


(S^y  &ff    < 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

INCLUDING  THE  DRAMA  OF  "THE  TWO 
MEN  OF  SANDY  BAR" 


OF 


BRET    HARTE 


BOSTON 
H0UGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK:  II  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  STREET 

Btoerstte  Press,  Cambridge 
1882 


Copyright,  1870,  1871,  and  1874, 
BY  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  CO,  AND  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO 

Copyright,  1882, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION l 


NATIONAL   POEMS. 

JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG      . 13 

"  HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY  ?" 17 

BATTLE   BUNNY 19 

THE  REVEILLE 22 

OUR   PRIVILEGE 24 

RELIEVING  GUARD 25 

THE  GODDESS 26 

ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING 28 

A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY  2Q 

THE  COPPERHEAD 32 

A  SANITARY  MESSAGE 33 

THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS         .......  35 

CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD         ...                •  37 

THE  AGED  STRANGER 39 

THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW -41 

CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD 43 

POEM,  DELIVERED  ON  THE  FOURTEENTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  CAL 
IFORNIA'S  ADMISSION  INTO  THE  UNION     ....  45 

MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS 48 

AN   ARCTIC   VISION £2 

ST.   THOMAS             .           .           . 55 

OFF  SCARBOROUGH 58 


SPANISH   IDYLS   AND   LEGENDS. 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO     ...  .  65 

THE  WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN         ....        68 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  ANGELUS 72 

CONCEPCION   DE  ARGUELLO 74 

"FOR   THE   KING" 8l 

RAMON 88 

DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH QI 

AT  THE  HACIENDA 95 

FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE 96 

IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN IO2 

THE  LOST  GALLEON    .        .        • 104 


POEMS   IN   DIALECT. 

"JIM" •.  113 

CHIQUITA Il6 

DOW'S  FLAT 119 

IN  THE  TUNNEL 123 

"CICELY" 125 

PENELOPE 129 

PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES       .        .        .        .131 

THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS 134 

LUKE 136 

"THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS" 141 

THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE 144 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES  TO  THE  EDITOR 148 

AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD I$I 

THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS 155 

THE  HAWK'S  NEST 158 

HER  LETTER 1 60 

HIS  ANSWER  TO  "  HER  LETTER " 163 

"THE  RETURN  OF  BELISARIUS  "        ....'..  166 

FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES  .  .        .  1 68 

AFTER  THE  ACCIDENT 171 

THE  GHOST  THAT  JIM  SAW 173 

"SEVENTY-NINE"       . 176 

THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY 179 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

A  GREYPORT  LEGEND 185 

A    NEWPORT   ROMANCE  187 


Contents.  vii 

PAGE 

SAN   FRANCISCO 190 

THE  MOUNTAIN   HEART'S  EASE 192 

GRIZZLY 194 

MADRONO 196 

COYOTE 198 

TO  A   SEA-BIRD 199 

WHAT   THE   CHIMNEY   SANG 2OO 

DICKENS   IN    CAMP 2O2 

TWENTY  YEARS 204 

FATE 2O6 

GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN 2O7 

GUILD'S   SIGNAL 210 

ASPIRING   MISS   DE   LAINE 212 

A  LEGEND   OF  COLOGNE 219 

THE  TALE  OF   A   PONY            .           . 22§ 

ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES 232 

LONE   MOUNTAIN 235 

ALNASCHAR 237 

THE  TWO   SHIPS 239^ 

ADDRESS   DELIVERED   AT  THE    OPENING    OF    THE    CALIFORNIA 

THEATRE,  SAN    FRANCISCO,  JANUARY    19,    1870     .  .  .240 

DOLLY  VARDEN '           .  242 

TELEMACHUS  VERSUS   MENTOR 244 

WHAT  THE  WOLF  REALLY  SAID  TO  LITTLE  RED  RIDING-HOOD      .  248 

HALF-AN-HOUR  BEFORE   SUPPER 249 

WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG 22 


PARODIES,  ETC. 

BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN 255 

TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL 256 

THE   BALLAD   OF   MR.   COOKE 258 

THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   EMEU 263 

MRS.   JUDGE  JENKINS .  .  .265 

A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL 268 

AVITOR 270 

THE  WILLOWS 272 

NORTH   BEACH 275 

THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS 276 

THE  RITUALIST 278 

A  MORAL  VINDICATOR 279 


viii  Contents. 


PAGE. 

CALIFORNIA   MADRIGAL 28 1 

WHAT  THE   ENGINES   SAID 283 

THE   LEGENDS   OF  THE   RHINE 286 

SONGS  WITHOUT   SENSE 288 


LITTLE   POSTERITY. 

MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR         ....  293 

MISS  EDITH'S  MODEST  REQUEST 296 

MISS  EDITH  MAKES  IT  PLEASANT  FOR  BROTHER  JACK     .        .  300 

MISS  EDITH  MAKES  ANOTHER  FRIEND 302 

ON  THE  LANDING 304 


DRAMA. 

TWO  MEN   OF  SANDY  BAR 307 

CADET  GREY 431 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  rearranging  and  editing  the  following  pages,  the  author 
is  impelled  by  a  desire  to  present  under  his  own  super 
vision  a  complete  edition  of  his  writings  which  shall  show 
as  nearly  as  possible  the  order  in  which  his  several  tales 
and  sketches  have  appeared  in  America ;  shall  contain  those 
writings  and  sketches  which  have  appeared  in  England  at 
various  times  and  under  various  shapes  and  editions ;  and 
shall,  more  particularly,  take  the  place  of  a  volume  known 
as  his  "Complete  Works."  This  volume,  published  in 
1872,  before  the  author's  presence  in  Europe  made  his 
personal  cognisance  and  supervision  of  such  a  work  pos 
sible,  was  desultory  and  incomplete,  even  for  the  time  of 
its  publication.  The  present  edition  aims  to  contain  the 
substance  of  that  volume,  duly  corrected,  with  all  that  was 
then  omitted  by  the  editor  or  has  since  been  published  by 
the  author. 

The  opportunity  here  offered  to  give  some  account  of 
the  genesis  of  these  Californian  sketches,  and  the  con 
ditions  under  which  they  were  conceived,  is  peculiarly 
tempting  to  an  author  who  has  been  obliged  to  retain  a 

decent  professional  reticence  under  a  cloud   of  ingenious 
VOL,  i.  A 


2  Introduction. 

surmise,  theory,  and  misinterpretation.  It  might  seem 
hardly  necessary  to  assure  an  intelligent  English  audience 
that  the  idea  and  invention  of  these  stories  was  not  due  to 
the  success  of  a  satirical  poem  known  as  the  "  Heathen 
Chinee,"  or  that  the  author  obtained  a  hearing  for  his  prose 
writings  through  this  happy  local  parable ;  yet  it  is  within 
the  past  year  that  he  has  had  the  satisfaction  of  reading 
this  ingenious  theory  in  a  literary  review  of  no  mean 
eminence.  He  very  gladly  seizes  this  opportunity  to 
establish  the  chronology  of  the  sketches,  and  incidentally 
to  show  that  what  are  considered  the  "  happy  accidents " 
of  literature  are  very  apt  to  be  the  results  of  quite  logical 
and  often  prosaic  processes. 

The  author's  first  volume  was  published  in  1865  in  a 
thin  book  of  verse,  containing,  besides  the  titular  poem, 
"  The  Lost  Galleon,"  various  patriotic  contributions  to  the 
lyrics  of  the  civil  war,  then  raging,  and  certain  better  known 
humorous  pieces,  which  have  been  hitherto  interspersed  with 
his  later  poems  in  separate  volumes,  but  are  now  restored 
to  their  former  companionship.  This  was  followed  in  1867 
by  "  The  Condensed  Novels,"  originally  contributed  to  the 
San  Francisco  Californian,  a  journal  then  edited  by  the 
author,  and  a  number  of  local  sketches  entitled  "  Bohemian 
Papers,"  making  a  single  not  very  plethoric  volume,  the 
author's  first  book  of  prose.  But  he  deems  it  worthy  of 
consideration  that  during  this  period,  /.*.,  from  1862  to 
1866,  he  produced  "The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus" 
and  "The  Story  of  Mliss," — the  first  a  dialectical  poem, 
the  second  a  Californian  romance, — his  first  efforts  toward 
indicating  a  peculiarly  characteristic  Western  American 
literature.  He  would  like  to  offer  these  facts  as  evidence 


Introduction.  3 

of  his  very  early,  half-boyish,  but  very  enthusiastic,  belief 
in  such  a  possibility — a  belief  which  never  deserted  him, 
and  which,  a  few  years  later,  from  the  better-known  pages 
of  the  Overland  Monthly ',  he  was  able  to  demonstrate  to  a 
larger  and  more  cosmopolitan  audience  in  the  story  of  "  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  and  the  poem  of  the  "  Heathen 
Chinee."  But  it  was  one  of  the  anomalies  of  the  very 
condition  of  life  that  he  worked  amidst,  and  endeavoured 
to  portray,  that  these  first  efforts  were  rewarded  by  very 
little  success ;  and,  as  he  will  presently  show,  even  "  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"  depended  for  its  recognition  in 
California  upon  its  success  elsewhere.  Hence  the  critical 
reader  will  observe  that  the  bulk  of  these  earlier  efforts,  as 
shown  in  the  first  two  volumes,  were  marked  by  very  little 
flavour  of  the  soil,  but  were  addressed  to  an  audience  half 
foreign  in  their  sympathies,  and  still  imbued  with  Eastern 
or  New  England  habits  and  literary  traditions.  "  Home  " 
was  still  potent  with  these  voluntary  exiles  in  their  moments 
of  relaxation.  Eastern  magazines  and  current  Eastern 
literature  formed  their  literary  recreation,  and  the  sale  of 
the  better  class  of  periodicals  was  singularly  great.  Nor 
was  the  taste  confined  to  American  literature.  The  illus 
trated  and  satirical  English  journals  were  as  frequently  seen 
in  California  as  in  Massachusetts ;  and  the  author  records 
that  he  has  experienced  more  difficulty  in  procuring  a  copy 
of  Punch  in  an  English  provincial  town  than  was  his  fortune 
at  "  Red  Dog  "  or  "  One-Horse  Gulch."  An  audience  thus 
liberally  equipped  and  familiar  with  the  best  modern  writers 
was  naturally  critical  and  exacting,  and  no  one  appreciates 
more  than  he  does  the  salutary  effects  of  this  severe  dis 
cipline  upon  his  earlier  efforts. 


4  Introduction. 

When  the  first  number  of  the  Overland  Monthly  appeared, 
the  author,  then  its  editor,  called  the  publisher's  attention  to 
the  lack  of  any  distinctive  Californian  romance  in  its  pages> 
and  averred  that,  should  no  other  contribution  come  in,  he 
himself  would  supply  the  omission  in  the  next  number.  No 
other  contribution  was  offered,  and  the  author,  having  the 
plot  and  general  idea  already  in  his  mind,  in  a  few  days 
sent  the  manuscript  of  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  to  the 
printer.  He  had  not  yet  received  the  proof-sheets  when 
he  was  suddenly  summoned  to  the  office  of  the  publisher, 
whom  he  found  standing  the  picture  of  dismay  and  anxiety 
with  the  proof  before  him.  The  indignation  and  stupefac 
tion  of  the  author  can  be  well  understood  when  he  was 
told  that  the  printer,  instead  of  returning  the  proofs  to  him, 
submitted  them  to  the  publisher,  with  the  emphatic  declara 
tion  that  the  matter  thereof  was  so  indecent,  irreligious,  and 
improper,  that  his  proof-reader — a  young  lady — had  with 
difficulty  been  induced  to  continue  its  perusal,  and  that  he, 
as  a  friend  of  the  publisher  and  a  well-wisher  of  the  magazine, 
was  impelled  to  present  to  him  personally  this  shameless 
evidence  of  the  manner  in  which  the  editor  was  imperilling 
the  future  of  that  enterprise.  It  should  be  premised  that 
the  critic  was  a  man  of  character  and  standing,  the  head  of 
a  large  printing  establishment,  a  church  member,  and,  the 
author  thinks,  a  deacon.  In  which  circumstances  the  pub 
lisher  frankly  admitted  to  the  author  that,  while  he  could 
not  agree  with  all  of  the  printer's  criticisms,  he  thought  the 
story  open  to  grave  objection,  and  its  publication  of  doubtful 
expediency. 

Believing  only  that  he  was  the  victim  of  some  extra 
ordinary  typographical  blunder,  the  author  at  once  sat  down 


Introduction.  5 

and  read  the  proof.  In  its  new  dress,  with  the  metamorphosis 
of  type — that  metamorphosis  which  every  writer  so  well 
knows  changes  his  relations  to  it  and  makes  it  no  longer 
seem  a  part  of  himself — he  was  able  to  read  it  with  some 
thing  of  the  freshness  of  an  untold  tale.  As  he  read  on 
he  found  himself  affected,  even  as  he  had  been  affected  in 
the  conception  and  writing  of  it — a  feeling  so  incompatible 
with  the  charges  against  it,  that  he  could  only  lay  it  down 
and  declare  emphatically,  albeit  hopelessly,  that  he  could 
really  see  nothing  objectionable  in  it.  Other  opinions  were 
sought  and  given.  To  the  author's  surprise,  he  found  himself 
in  the  minority.  Finally,  the  story  was  submitted  to  three 
gentlemen  of  culture  and  experience,  friends  of  publisher 
and  author, — who  were  unable,  however,  to  come  to  any  clear 
decision.  It  was,  however,  suggested  to  the  author  that, 
assuming  the  natural  hypothesis  that  his  editorial  reasoning 
might  be  warped  by  his  literary  predilections  in  a  considera 
tion  of  one  of  his  own  productions,  a  personal  sacrifice  would 
at  this  juncture  be  in  the  last  degree  heroic.  This  last 
suggestion  had  the  effect  of  ending  all  further  discussion ; 
for  he  at  once  informed  the  publisher  that  the  question  of 
the  propriety  of  the  story  was  no  longer  at  issue ;  the  only 
question  was  of  his  capacity  to  exercise  the  proper  editorial 
judgment;  and  that  unless  he  was  permitted  to  test  that 
capacity  by  the  publication  of  the  story,  and  abide  squarely 
by  the  result,  he  must  resign  his  editorial  position.  The 
publisher,  possibly  struck  with  the  author's  confidence, 
possibly  from  kindliness  of  disposition  to  a  younger  man, 
yielded,  and  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  was  published 
in  the  current  number  of  the  magazine  for  which  it  was 
written,  as  it  was  written,  without  emendation,  omission, 


6  Introduction. 

alteration,  or  apology.  A  no  inconsiderable  part  of  the 
grotesqueness  of  the  situation  was  the  feeling,  which  the 
author  retained  throughout  the  whole  affair,  of  the  perfect 
sincerity,  good  faith,  and  seriousness  of  his  friend's — the 
printer's — objection,  and  for  many  days  thereafter  he  was 
haunted  by  a  consideration  of  the  sufferings  of  this  con 
scientious  man,  obliged  to  assist  materially  in  disseminating 
the  dangerous  and  subversive  doctrines  contained  in  this 
baleful  fiction.  What  solemn  protests  must  have  been  laid 
with  the  ink  on  the  rollers  and  impressed  upon  those 
wicked  sheets  !  what  pious  warnings  must  have  been  secretly 
folded  and  stitched  in  that  number  of  the  Overland  Monthly  f 
Across  the  cjiasm  of  years  and  distance  the  author  stretches 
forth  the  hand  of  sympathy  and  forgiveness,  not  forgetting 
the  gentle  proof-reader,  that  chaste  and  unknown  nymph, 
whose  mantling  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes  gave  the  first 
indications  of  warning. 

But  the  troubles  of  the  "  Luck"  were  far  from  ended.  It 
had  secured  an  entrance  into  the  world,  but,  like  its  own 
hero,  it  was  born  with  an  evil  reputation  and  to  a  community 
that  had  yet  to  learn  to  love  it.  The  secular  press,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions,  received  it  coolly,  and  referred  to  its 
"singularity  ;"  the  religious  press  frantically  excommunicated 
it,  and  anathematised  it  as  the  offspring  of  evil ;  the  high 
promise  of  the  Overland  Monthly  was  said  to  have  been 
ruined  by  its  birth  ;  Christians  were  cautioned  against  pol 
lution  by  its  contact ;  practical  business  men  were  gravely 
urged  to  condemn  and  frown  upon  this  picture  of  Califor- 
nian  society  that  was  not  conducive  to  Eastern  immigration  ; 
its  hapless  author  was  held  up  to  obloquy  as  a  man  who 
had  abused  a  sacred  trust.  If  its  life  and  reputation  had 


Introduction.  7 

depended  on  its  reception  in  California,  this  edition  and 
explanation  would  alike  have  been  needless.  But,  fortu 
nately,  the  young  Overland  Monthly  had  in  its  first  number 
secured  a  hearing  and  position  throughout  the  American 
Union,  and  the  author  waited  the  larger  verdict.  The 
publisher,  albeit  his  worst  fears  were  confirmed,  was  not  a 
man  to  weakly  regret  a  position  he  had  once  taken,  and 
waited  also.  The  return  mail  from  the  East  brought  a  letter 
addressed  to  the  "  Editor  of  the  Overland  Monthly,"  enclos 
ing  a  letter  from  Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.,  the  publishers  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  addressed  to  the — to  them — unknown 
"  Author  of  <  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp. ' "  This  the  author 
opened,  and  found  to  be  a  request,  upon  the  most  flattering 
terms,  for  a  story  for  the  Atlantic  similar  to  the  "Luck." 
The  same  mail  brought  newspapers  and  reviews  welcoming 
the  little  foundling  of  Californian  literature  with  an  enthu 
siasm  that  half  frightened  its  author  ;  but  with  the  placing  of 
that  letter  in  the  hands  of  the  publisher,  who  chanced  to  be 
standing  by  his  side,  and  who  during  those  dark  days  had, 
without  the  author's  faith,  sustained  the  author  s  position, 
he  felt  that  his  compensation  was  full  and  complete. 

Thus  encouraged,  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"  was 
followed  by  "  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,"  "  Miggles," 
"Tennessee's  Partner,"  and  those  various  other  characters 
who  had  impressed  the  author  when,  a  mere  truant 
schoolboy,  he  had  lived  among  them.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  to  any  observer  of  human  nature  that  at 
this  time  he  was  advised  by  kind  and  well-meaning  friends 
to  content  himself  with  the  success  of  the  "  Luck,"  and  not 
tempt  criticism  again ;  or  that  from  that  moment  ever  after 
he  was  in  receipt  of  that  equally  sincere  contemporaneous 


8  Introduction. 

criticism  which  assured  him  gravely  that  each  successive 
story  was  a  falling  off  from  the  last.  Howbeit,  by  rein- 
vigorated  confidence  in  himself  and  some  conscientious 
industry,  he  managed  to  get  together  in  a  year  six  or  eight 
of  these  sketches,  which,  in  a  volume  called  "  The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp  and  Other  Sketches,"  gave  him  that  en 
couragement  in  America  and  England  that  has  since 
seemed  to  justify  him  in  swelling  these  records  of  a 
picturesque  passing  civilisation  into  the  compass  of  the 
present  edition. 

A  few  words  regarding  the  peculiar  conditions  of  life  and 
society  that  are  here  rudely  sketched,  and  often  but  barely 
outlined.  The  author  is  aware  that,  partly  from  a  habit 
of  thought  and  expression,  partly  from  the  exigencies  of 
brevity  in  his  narratives,  and  partly  from  the  habit  of 
addressing  an  audience  familiar  with  the  local  scenery,  he 
often  assumes,  as  premises  already  granted  by  the  reader, 
the  existence  of  a  peculiar  and  romantic  state  of  civilisation, 
the  like  of  which  few  English  readers  are  inclined  to  accept 
without  corroborative  facts  and  figures.  These  he  cculd 
only  give  by  referring  to  the  ephemeral  records  of  Californian 
journals  of  that  date,  and  the  testimony  of  far-scattered 
witnesses,  survivors  of  the  exodus  of  1849.  He  must  beg 
the  reader  to  bear  in  mind  that  this  emigration  was  either 
across  a  continent  almost  unexplored,  or  by  the  way  of  a 
long  and  dangerous  voyage  around  Cape  Horn,  and  that 
the  promised  land  itself  presented  the  singular  spectacle  of 
a  patriarchal  Latin  race  who  had  been  left  to  themselves, 
forgotten  by  the  world,  for  nearly  three  hundred  years. 
The  faith,  courage,  vigour,  youth,  and  capacity  for  adventure 
necessary  to  this  emigration  produced  a  body  of  men  as 


Introduction.  9 

strongly  distinctive  as  the  companions  of  Jason.  Unlike 
most  pioneers,  the  majority  were  men  of  profession  and 
education ;  all  were  young,  and  all  had  staked  their  future  in 
the  enterprise.  Critics  who  have  taken  large  and  exhaustive 
views  of  mankind  and  society  from  club  windows  in  Pall 
Mall  or  the  Fifth  Avenue  can  only  accept  for  granted  the 
turbulent  chivalry  that  thronged  the  streets  of  San  Francisco 
in  the  gala  days  of  her  youth,  and  must  read  the  blazon  of 
their  deeds  like  the  doubtful  quarterings  of  the  shield  of 
Amadis  de  Gaul.  The  author  has  been  frequently  asked 
if  such  and  such  incidents  were  real ;  if  he  had  ever  met 
such  and  such  characters  ?  To  this  he  must  return  the  one 
answer,  that  in  only  a  single  instance  was  he  conscious 
of  drawing  purely  from  his  imagination  and  fancy  for  a 
character  and  a  logical  succession  of  incidents  drawn  there 
from.  A  few  weeks  after  his  story  was  published,  he 
received  a  letter,  authentically  signed,  correcting  some  of  the 
minor  details  of  his  facts  (!),  and  enclosing  as  corroborative 
evidence  a  slip  from  an  old  newspaper,  wherein  the  main 
incident  of  his  supposed  fanciful  creation  was  recorded  with 
a  largeness  of  statement  that  far  transcended  his  powers  of 
imagination. 

He  has  been  repeatedly  cautioned,  kindly  and  unkindly, 
intelligently  and  unintelligently,  against  his  alleged  tendency 
to  confuse  recognised  standards  of  morality  by  extenu 
ating  lives  of  recklessness,  and  often  criminality,  with  a 
single  solitary  virtue.  He  might  easily  show  that  he  has 
never  written  a  sermon,  that  he  has  never  moralised  or 
commented  upon  the  actions  cf  his  heroes,  that  he  has 
never  voiced  a  creed  or  obtrusively  demonstrated  an 
ethical  opinion.  He  might  easily  allege  that  this  merciful 


i  o  Introduction. 

effect  of  his  art  arose  from  the  reader's  weak  human  sym 
pathies,  and  hold  himself  irresponsible.  But  he  would  be 
conscious  of  a  more  miserable  weakness  in  thus  divorcing 
himself  from  his  fellow-men  who  in  the  domain  of  art 
must  ever  walk  hand  in  hand  with  him.  So  he  prefers  to 
say,  that  of  all  the  various  forms  in  which  Cant  presents 
itself  to  suffering  humanity,  he  knows  of  none  so  out 
rageous,  so  illogical,  so  undemonstrable,  so  marvellously 
absurd  as  the  Cant  of  "Too  Much  Mercy."  When  it  shall 
be  proven  to  him  that  communities  are  degraded  and 
brought  to  guilt  and  crime,  suffering  or  destitution,  from  a 
predominance  of  this  quality  ;  when  he  shall  see  pardoned 
ticket-of-leave  men  elbowing  men  of  austere  lives  out  of 
situation  and  position,  and  the  repentant  Magdalen  sup 
planting  the  blameless  virgin  in  society,  then  he  will  lay 
aside  his  pen  and  extend  his  hand  to  the  new  Draconian 
discipline  in  fiction.  But  until  then  he  will,  without  claiming 
to  be  a  religious  man  or  a  moralist,  but  simply  as  an  artist, 
reverently  and  humbly  conform  to  the  rules  laid  down  by 
a  Great  Poet  who  created  the  parable  of  the  "Prodigal 
Son  "  and  the  "Good  Samaritan,"  whose  works  have  lasted 
eighteen  hundred  years,  and  will  remain  when  the  present 
writer  and  his  generation  are  forgotten.  And  he  is  con 
scious  of  uttering  no  original  doctrine  in  this,  but  of  only 
voicing  the  beliefs  of  a  few  of  his  literary  brethren  happily 
living,  and  one  gloriously  dead,  who  never  made  proclama 
tion  of  this  "from  the  housetops." 


POEMS. 

National, 


'Burns  of 


HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?—  No  ?  Ah,  well  : 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns  : 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 

The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town  : 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July  sixty-three, 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field 

I  might  tell  how  but  the  day  before 

John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 

Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 

He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet  ; 

Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 

The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail  red  as  blood  ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees  ' 


1 4  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed,  kine.- 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 


And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass, — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 

While  on  the  left — where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept — 

Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare  ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain  ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 
Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 


John  Burns  of  Gettysburg.  1 5 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron, — but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons, — size  of  a  dollar, — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "swaller," 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "quiltings"  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin, — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in, — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat ! "  "  Put  her  through  ! " 

"  Your  head's  level ! "   and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 

Called  him  "  Daddy/'— begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those ; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off, — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 


1 6  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown  ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there  ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns — a  practical  man — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather  I 


17 


"$oto  are  sou, 


DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane 

Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 

Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 
Soldier-like  and  merry : 

Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 

Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 

Such  as  "  Bully  !  "  "  Them's  the  peach  !" 
"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !  " 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military ; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these, — 
"U.  S.  San.  Com."  « That's  the  cheese!" 

"Pass  in,  Sanitary!7' 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo  !  was  stationary ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die, — 

Save  us,  Sanitary  ! " 

VOL.  I 


1 8  "How  are  you,  Sanitary?" 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise ; 
But  the  brave — whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride : 

<%  Pass  in,  Sanitary  1 " 


I  '9  ) 


OBattle  QBunng, 

(MALVERN  HILL,  1864.) 

["  After  the  men  were  ordered  to  lie  down,  a.  white  rabbit,  which  had 
been  hopping  hither  and  thither  over  the  field  swept  by  grape  and 
musketry,  took  refuge  among  the  skirmishers,  in  the  breast  of  a  cor 
poral."— Report  of  the  Battle  of  Malvern  Hill.} 

BUNNY,  lying  in  the  grass, 
Saw  the  shining  column  pass ; 
Saw  the  starry  banner  fly, 
Saw  the  chargers  fret  and  fume, 
Saw  the  flapping  hat  and  plume — 
Saw  them  with  his  moist  and  shy 
Most  unspeculative  eye, 
Thinking  only,  in  the  dew, 
That  it  was  a  fine  review — 
Till  a  flash,  not  all  of  steel, 
Where  the  rolling  caissons  wheel, 
Brought  a  rumble  and  a  roar 
Rolling  down  that  velvet  floor, 
And  like  blows  of  autumn  flail 
Sharply  threshed  the  iron  hail. 

Bunny,  thrilled  by  unknown  fears, 
Raised  his  soft  and  pointed  ears, 
Mumbled  his  prehensile  lip, 
Quivered  his  pulsating  hip, 


2O  Battle  Bunny. 

As  the  sharp  vindictive  yell 
Rose  above  the  screaming  shell ; 
Thought  the  world  and  all  its  men— 
All  the  charging  squadrons  meant— 
All  were  rabbit-hunters  then, 
All  to  capture  him  intent. 
Bunny  was  not  much  to  blame  : 
Wiser  folk  have  thought  the  same- 
Wiser  folk  who  think  they  spy 
Every  ill  begins  with  "  I." 

Wildly  panting  here  and  there, 
Bunny  sought  the  freer  air, 
Till  he  hopped  below  the  hill, 
And  saw,  lying  close  and  still, 
Men  with  muskets  in  their  hand* 
(Never  Bunny  understands 
That  hypocrisy  of  sleep, 
In  the  vigils  grim  they  keep, 
As  recumbent  on  that  spot 
They  elude  the  level  shot.) 

One — a  grave  and  quiet  man, 
Thinking  of  his  wife  and  child 
Far  beyond  the  Rapidan, 
Where  the  Androsaggin  smiled— 
Felt  the  little  rabbit  creep, 
Nestling  by  his  arm  and  side, 
Wakened  from  strategic  sleep, 
To  that  soft  appeal  replied, 
Drew  him  to  his  blackened  breast, 
And— 

But  you  have  guessed  the  rest. 
Softly  o'er  that  chosen  pair 
Omnipresent  Love  and  Care 


Battle  Bunny.  2 1 

Drew  a  mightier  Hand  and  Arm, 
Shielding  them  from  every  harm ; 
Right  and  left  the  bullets  waved, 
Saved  the  saviour  for  the  saved. 


Who  believes  that  equal  grace 
God  extends  in  every  place, 
Little  difference  he  scans 
Twixt  a  rabbit's  God  and  man'* 


Cfje  Eefceille* 

HARK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum ; 
Lo  !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum,— 
v  Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come  ! 
Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick  alarming  drum, 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 

Death   shall   reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said   the   solemn- 
sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  !. 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee-answer 
ing  drum. 


The  Reveille.  23 

"  What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant, — 
Come!" 

Thus  they  answered, — hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  ! " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo  !  was  dumb, 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  answered 
"  Lord,  we  come  ! " 


NOT  ours,  where  battle  smoke  upcurls, 

And  battle  dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason  hurls 

By  sword  and  bayonet. 

Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 
The  fleshless  Reaper  wields ; 

The  harvest  moon  looks  calmly  down 
Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 

The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 
And  Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 

Is  pouring  far  and  free. 

O  brothers  by  the  farther  sea  ! 

Think  still  our  faith  is  warm  ; 
The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 
That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 
Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride — 

The  blood  that  flowed  when  Lander  fell, 
And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 

With  every  pulse  ye  feel, 
And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 

With  Valour's  clashing  steel. 


Eelietring 

T.  S.  K.       OBIIT  MARCH  4,  1864. 

CAME  the  relief.     "  What,  sentry,  ho  ! 

How  passed  the  night  through  thy  long  waking  ? }> 

"  Cold,  cheerless,  dark, — as  may  befit 

The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"  No  sight  ?  no  sound  ?  "     "  No ;  nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marches  calling, 
And  in  yon  western  sky,  about 
An  hour  ago,  a  star  was  falling." 

"A  star?     There's  nothing  strange  in  that* 
"  No,  nothing ;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket" 


FOR   THE   SANITARY   FAIR. 

"  WHO  oomes  ?  "     The  sentry's  warning  cry 
Rings  sharply  on  the  evening  air : 

Who  comes  ?    The  challenge  :  no  reply, 
Yet  something  motions  there. 

A  woman,  by  those  graceful  folds  ; 

A  soldier,  by  that  martial  tread  : 
"  Advance  three  paces.     Halt !  until 

Thy  name  and  rank  be  said.7' 

"  My  name  ?     Her  name,  in  ancient  song 
Who  fearless  from  Olympus  came : 

Look  on  me  !     Mortals  know  me  best 
In  battle  and  in  flame." 

"  Enough  !  I  know  that  clarion  voice ; 

I  know  that  gleaming  eye  and  helm ; 
Those  crimson  lips, — and  in  their  dew 

The  best  blood  of  the  realm. 

"  The  young,  the  brave,  the  good  and  wise, 
Have  fallen  in  thy  curst  embrace : 

The  juices  of  the  grapes  of  wrath   ' 
Still  stain  thy  guilty  face.     , 


The  Goddess.  \  2  7 

"  My  brother  lies  in  yonder  field, 
Face  downward  to  the  quiet  grass : 

Go  back  !  he  cannot  see  thee  now ; 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  pass." 

A  crack  upon  the  evening  air, 

A  wakened  echo  from  the  hill : 
The  watchdog  on  the  distant  shore 

Gives  mouth,  and  all  is  still. 

The  sentry  with  his  brother  lies 
Face  downward  on  the  quiet  grass ; 

And  by  him,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
A  shadow  seems  to  pass. 

No  lance  or  warlike  shield  it  bears : 

A  helmet  in  its  pitying  hands 
Brings  water  from  the  nearest  brook, 

To  meet  his  last  demands. 

Can  this  be  she  of  haughty  mien, 

The  goddess  of  the  sword  and  shield  ? 

Ah,  yes  !     The  Grecian  poet's  myth 
Sways  still  each  battlefield. 

For  not  alone  that  rugged  War 

Some  grace  or  charm  from  Beauty  gains; 
But,  when  the  goddess'  work  is  done, 

The  woman's  still  remains. 


a  pen  of  Cfjomag  ©tart  &ing* 


THIS  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath  still  hidden  ; 

The  prompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies  unbidden. 

But  who  shall  finish  the  unfinished  strain, 
Or  wake  the  instrument  to  awe  and  wonder, 

And  bid  the  slender  barrel  breathe  again, 
An  organ  -pipe  of  thunder  ! 

His  pen  !  what  humbler  memories  cling  about 

Its  golden  curves  !  what  shapes  and  laughing  graces 

Slipped  from  its  point,  when  his  full  heart  went  out 
In  smiles  and  courtly  phrases  ? 

The  truth,  half  jesting,  half  in  earnest  flung  ; 

The  word  of  cheer,  with  recognition  in  it  ; 
The  note  of  alms,  whose  golden  speech  outrung 

The  golden  gift  within  it. 

But  all  in  vain  the  enchanter's  wand  we  wave  : 
No  stroke  of  ours  recalls  his  magic  vision  : 

The  incantation  that  its  power  gave 
Sleeps  with  the  dead  magician. 


©econU  ffitetiieto  of  tfje  tifrranti 


I  READ  last  night  of  the  grand  review 
In  Washington's  chiefest  avenue,  — 
Two  hundred  thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number,  — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 
Would  only  my  verse  encumber,  — 
I  fell  in  a  reverie,  sad  and  sweet, 
And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 


r 


When,  lo  !  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico,  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare  ; 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square  ; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 


30     A  Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread ; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning. 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires : 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation  : 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead, — the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever  swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison  pen  ; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright;  * 
I  thought — perhaps  'twas  the  pale  moonlight — 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 


A  Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army.     31 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished ; 
No  mark — save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer ; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky ; 
With  never  a  flower  save  .those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves — for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array, 
So  all  night  long  till  the  morning  gray 
I  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder, — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  length'ning  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come  ;  and  I  spake — and  lo  !  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


Cfie  CopperfjeaD, 

(1864.) 

THERE  is  peace  in  the  swamp  where  the  Copperhead 

sleeps, 

Where  the  waters  are  stagnant,  the  white  vapour  creeps, 
Where  the  musk  of  Magnolia  hangs  thick  in  the  air, 
And  the  lilies'  phylacteries  broaden  in  prayer. 
There  is  peace  in  the  swamp,  though  the  quiet  is  death, 
Though  the  mist  is  miasma,  the  upas-tree's  breath, 
Though  no  echo  awakes  to  the  cooing  of  doves, — 
There  is  peace  :  yes,  the  peace  that  the  Copperhead  loves  ! 

Go  seek  him :  he  coils  in  the  ooze  and  the  drip, 
Like  a  thong  idly  flung  from  the  slave-driver's  whip ; 
But  beware  the  false  footstep, — the  stumble  that  brings 
A  deadlier  lash  than  the  overseer  swings. 
Never  arrow  so  true,  never  bullet  so  dread, 
As  the  straight  steady  stroke  of  that  hammer-shaped  head ; 
Whether  slave  or  proud  panther,  who  braves  that  dull  crest, 
Woe  to  him  who  shall  trouble  the  Copperhead's  rest ! 

Then  why  waste  your  labours,  brave  hearts  and  strong  men, 
In  tracking  a  trail  to  the  Copperhead's  den  ? 
Lay  your  axe  to  the  cypress,  hew  open  the  shade 
To  the  free  sky  and  sunshine  Jehovah  has  made ; 
Let  the  breeze  of  the  North  sweep  the  vapours  away, 
Till  the  stagnant  lake  ripples,  the  freed  waters  play ; 
And  then  to  your  heel  can  you  righteously  doom 
The  Copperhead  born  of  its  shadow  and  gloom  ! 


(     33    ) 


LAST  night,  above  the  whistling  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain, — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  keyhole  piped  ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew  ; 

(Yet,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 
A  softer  voice  stole  through. 

"  Give  thanks,  O  brothers  ! "  said  the  voice, 

"  That  He  who  sent  the  rains 
Hath  spared  your  fields  the  scarlet  dew 

That  drips  from  patriot  veins  : 
I've  seen  the  grass  on  Eastern  graves 

In  brighter  verdure  rise ; 
But,  oh  !  the  rain  that  gave  it  life 

Sprang  first  from  human  eyes. 

"  I  come  to  wash  away  no  stain 

Upon  your  wasted  lea ; 
I  raise  no  banners,  save  the  ones 

The  forest  waves  to  me : 
Upon  the  mountain  side,  where  Spring 

Her  farthest  picket  sets, 
/My  reveille  awakes  a  host 

Of  grassy  bayonets. 

VOL.  I.  < 


34  A  Sanitary  Message. 

"  I  visit  every  humble  roof; 

I  mingle  with  the  low  : 
Only  upon  the  highest  peaks 

My  blessings  fall  in  snow ; 
Until,  in  tricklings  of  the  stream 

And  drainings  of  the  lea, 
My  unspent  bounty  comes  at  last 

To  mingle  with  the  sea." 

And  thus  all  night,  above  the  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain, — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  keyhole  piped ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew  ; 
But,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

This  hymn  of  peace  stole  through. 


(     35    ) 


Cfje 

(RE-UNION,  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  I2TH 


WELL,  you  see,  the  fact  is,  Colonel,  I  don't  know  as  I  can 

come  : 
For  the  farm  is  not  half  planted,  and  there's  work  to  do  at 

home; 

And  my  leg  is  getting  troublesome,  —  it  laid  me  up  last  Fall, 
And  the  doctors,  they  have  cut  and  hacked,  and  never 

found  the  ball. 

And  then,  for  an  old  man  like  me,  if  s  not  exactly  right, 
This  kind  o'  playing  soldier  with  no  enemy  in  sight. 
"  The  Union,"  —  that  was  well  enough  way  up  to  '66  ; 
But  this  "Re-Union,"  maybe  now  it's  mixed  with  politics? 

No  ?    Well,  you  understand  it  best  ;  but  then,  you  see,  my 

lad, 
I'm  deacon  now,  and  some  might  think  that  the  example's 

bad. 
And  week  from  next  is  Conference.  .  .  .  You  said  the  twelfth 

of  May  ? 
Why,    that's    the    day  we   broke  their  line  at  Spottsyl- 

van-i-a  ! 


36  The  Old  Major  Explains. 

Hot  work;  eh,  Colonel,  wasn't  it?    Ye  mind  that  narrow 

front : 
They  called  it  the  "  Death-Angle  ! "    Well,  well,  my  lad,  we 

won't 

Fight  that  old  battle  over  now  :  I  only  meant  to  say 
I  really  can't  engage  to  come  upon  the  twelfth  of  May, 

How's  Thompson  ?    What !  will  he  be  there  ?    Well,  now 

I  wan't  to  know ! 
The  first  man  in  the  rebel  works  !  they  called  him  "  Swearing 

Joe." 

A  wild  young  fellow,  sir,  I  fear  the  rascal  was  ;  but  then — 
Well,  short  of  heaven,  there  wa'n't  a  place  he  dursn't  lead 

his  men. 

And  Dick,  you  say,  is  coming  too.  And  Billy  ?  ah  !  it's 
true 

We  buried  him  at  Gettysburg :  I  mind  the  spot ;  do  you  ? 

A  littk  field  below  the  hill, — it  must  be  green  this  May ; 

Perhaps  that's  why  the  fields  about  bring  him  to  me  to 
day. 

Well,  well,  excuse  me,  Colonel !  but  there  are  some  things 

that  drop 
The  tail-board  out  one's  feelings  ;  and  the  only  way's  to 

stop. 
So  they  want  to  see  the  old  man  ;  ah,  the  rascals  !  do  they, 

eh? 
Well,  I've  business  down  in  Boston  about  the  twelfth  of 

May. 


(    37     ) 


Caltfontta'0  Greeting  to 


WE  know  him  well  :  no  need  of  praise 

Or  bonfire  from  the  windy  hill 
To  light  to  softer  paths  and  ways 

The  world-worn  man  we  honour  stilL 

No  need  to  quote  those  truths  he  spoke      x 
That  burned  through  years  of  war  and  shame, 

While  History  carves  with  surer  stroke 
Across  our  map  his  noonday  fame. 

No  need  to  bid  him  show  the  scars 
Or  blows  dealt  by  the  Scaean  gate, 

Who  lived  to  pass  its  shattered  bars, 
And  see  the  foe  capitulate  : 

Who  lived  to  turn  his  slower  feet 

Toward  the  western  setting  sun, 
To  see  his  harvest  all  complete, 

His  dream  fulfilled,  his  duty  done, 

The  one  flag  streaming  from  the  pole, 
The  one  faith  borne  from  sea  to  sea  : 

For  such  a  triumph,  and  such  goal, 
Poor  must  our  human  greeting  be. 


38         Calif omids  Greeting  to  Seward. 

Ah  !  rather  that  the  conscious  land 
In  simpler  ways  salute  the  Man, — 

The  tall  pines  bowing  where  they  stand, 
The  bared  head  of  El  Capitan, 

The  tumult  of  the  waterfalls, 
Pohono's  kerchief  in  the  breeze, 

The  waving  from  the  rocky  walls, 
The  stir  and  rustle  of  the  trees  ; 

Till,  lapped  in  sunset  skies  of  hope, 
In  sunset  lands  by  sunset  seas, 

The  Young  World's  Premier  treads  the  slope 
Of  sunset  years  in  calm  and  peace. 


(     39     ) 


Stranger* 

AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE  WAR. 

w  I  WAS  with  Grant — "  the  stranger  said ; 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 

For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant — "  the  stranger  said  $ 
Said  the  farmer,  "  Nay,  no  more, — 

I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 
And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy, — my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps? 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar  ! * 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And,  as  I  remarked  before, 

I  was  with  Grant — "  "  Nay,  nay,  I  know/ 
Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  more : 

"  He  fell  in  battle, — I  see,  alas  ! 

Thou'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er, — 
Nay,  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 


4o  The  Aged  Stranger. 

"  How  fell  he  ?— with  his  face  to  the  foe, 
Upholding  the  flag  he  bore  ? 

Oh,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 
The  uniform  that  he  wore  ! " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And  should  have  remarked  before, 

That  I  was  with  Grant, — in  Illinois, — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


C&e  3ft>$  of  Battle  Ipoitoto. 

(WAR   OF   THE   REBELLION,   1864.) 

No,  I  won't — thar,  now,  so  !     And  it  ain't  nothin', — no ! 
And  thar's  nary  to  tell  that  you  folks  yer  don't  know ; 
And  it's  "  Belle,  tell  us,  do  ! "  and  it's  "  Belle,  is  it  true  ?  " 
And  "  Wot's  this  yer  yarn  of  the  Major  and  you  ?  " 
Till  I'm  sick  of  it  all, — so  I  am,  but  I  s'pose 
Thet  is  nothin'  to  you Well,  then,  listen  !  yer  goes  ! 

It  was  after  the  fight,  and  around  us  all  night 
Thar  was  poppin'  and  shootin'  a  powerful  sight ; 
And  the  niggers  had  fled,  and  Aunt  Chlo  was  abed, 
And  Pinky  and  Milly  were  hid  in  the  shed : 
And  I  ran  out  at  daybreak  and  nothin'  was  nigh 
But  the  growlin'  of  cannon  low  down  in  the  sky. 

And  I  saw  not  a  thing  as. I  ran  to  the  spring, 
But  a  splintered  fence  rail  and  a  broken-down  swing, 
And  a  bird  said  "  Kerchee  ! "  as  it  sat  on  a  tree, 
As  if  it  was  lonesome  and  glad  to  see  me ; 
And  I  filled  up  my  pail  and  was  risin'  to  go, 
When  up  comes  the  Major  a  canterin'  slow. 

When  he  saw  me,  he  drew  in  his  reins,  and  then  threw 
On  the  gate-post  his  bridle,  and — what  dqes  he  do 


42  The  Idyl  of  Battle  Hollow. 

But  come  down  where  I  sat ;  and  he  lifted  his  hat, 
And  he  says — well,  thar  ain't  any  need  to  tell  that — 
'Twas  some  foolishness,  sure,  but  it  'mounted  to  this, 
Thet  he  asked  for  a  drink,  and  he  wanted — a  kiss. 

Then  I  said  (I  was  mad),  "  For  the  water,  my  lad, 
You're  too  big  and  must  stoop ;  for  a  kiss,  it's  as  bad — 
You  ain't  near  big  enough."     And  I  turned  in  a  huff, 
When  that  Major  he  laid  his  white  hand  on  my  cuff, 
And  he  says,  "  You're  a  trump  !  Take  my  pistol,  don't  fear 
But  shoot  the  next  man  that  insults  you,  my  dear." 

Then  he  stooped  to  the  pool,  very  quiet  and  cool, 
Leavin'  me  with  that  pistol  stuck  there  like  a  fool, 
When  thar  flashed  on  my  sight  a  quick  glimmer  of  light 
From  the  top  of  the  little  stone-fence  on  the  right, 
And  I  knew  'twas  a  rifle,  and  back  of  it  all 
Rose  the  face  of  that  bushwhacker,  Cherokee  Hall ! 

Then  I  felt  in  my  dread  that  the  moment  the  head 
Of  the  Major  was  lift:ed,  the  Major  was  dead  ; 
And  I  stood  still  and  white,  but  Lord  !  gals,  in  spite 
Of  my  care,  that  derned  pistol  went  off  in  my  fright ! 
Went  off — true  as  gospil ! — and,  strangest  of  all, 
It  actooally  injured  that  Cherokee  Hall. 

Thet's  all — now,  go  long.  Yes,  some  folks  thinks  it's  wrong 
And  thar's  some  wants  to  know  to  what  side  I  belong ; 
But  I  says,  "  Served  him  right ! "  and  I  go,  all  my  might, 
In  love  or  in  war,  for  a  fair  stand-up  fight ; 
And  as  for  the  Major — Sho  !  gals,  don't  you  know 
Thet — Lord  ! — thar's  his  step  in  the  garden  below. 


(     43     ) 


CatotoeW  of 

(NEW  JERSEY,  1780.) 

HERE'S  the  spot.     Look  around  you.     Above  on  the  height 
Lay  the  Hessians  encamped.     By  that  church  on  the  right 
Stood  the  gaunt  Jersey  farmers.     And  here  ran  a  wall — 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball. 
Nothing  more.     Grasses  spring,  waters  run,  flowers  blow, 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 

Nothing  more,  did  I  say?    Stay  one  moment ;  youVe  heard 
Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached  the  word 
Down  at  Springfield?    What,  No?    Come — that's  bad.    Why 

he  had 

All  the  Jerseys  aflame  !     And  they  gave  him  the  name 
Of  the  "rebel  high  priest."     He  stuck  in  their  gorge, 
For  he  loved  the  Lord  God — and  he  hated  King  George  ! 

He  had  cause,  you  might  say !     When  the  Hessians  that 

day 

Marched  up  with  Knyphausen,  they  stopped  on  their  way 
At  the  "  farms,"  where  his  wife,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
Sat  alone  in  the  house.     How  it  happened  none  knew 
But  God — and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot !     Enough  ! — there  she  lay, 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband,  away  I 


44  Caldwell  of  Springfield 

Did  he  preach — did  he  pray?     Think  of  him  as  you  stand 
By  the  old  church  to-day  : — think  of  him  and  that  band 
Of  militant  ploughboys  !     See  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
Of  that  reckless  advance — of  that  straggling  retreat ! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in  your  view — 
And  what  could  you,  what  should  you,  what  would  you  do  ? 

Why,  just  what  he  did  !     They  were  left  in  the  lurch 
For  the  want  of  more  wadding.     He  ran  to  the  church, 
Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed  out  in  the 

road 

With  his  arms  full  of  hymn-books,  and  threw  down  his  load 
At  their  feet !     Then  above  all  the  shouting  and  shots 
Rang  his  yoice — "  Put   Watts  into  'em — Boys,  give  'em 

Watts!" 

And  they  did.     That  is  all     Grasses  spring,  flowers  blow, 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball — 
But  not  always  a  hero  like  this — and  that's  all. 


(    45     ) 


poem 

DELIVERED    ON    THE    FOURTEENTH    ANNIVERSARY    OF    CALI 
FORNIA'S   ADMISSION    INTO   THE    UNION. 

September  9,  1864. 

WE  meet  in  peace,  though  from  our  native  East 
The  sun  that  sparkles  on  our  birthday  feast 
Glanced  as  he  rose  in  fields  whose  dews  were  red 
With  darker  tints  than  those  Aurora  spread. 
Though  shorn  his  rays — his  welcome  disc  concealed 
In  the  dim  smoke  that  veiled  each  battlefield, 
Still  striving  upward,  in  meridian  pride, 
He  climbed  the  walls  that  East  and  West  divide — 
Saw  his  bright  face  flashed  back  from  golden  sand, 
And  sapphire  seas  that  lave  the  Western  land. 

Strange  was  the  contrast  that  such  scenes  disclose 
From  his  high  vantage  o'er  eternal  snows ; 
There  War's  alarm  the  brazen  trumpet  rings — 
Here  his  love-song  the  mailed  cicala  sings  ; 
There  bayonets  glitter  through  the  forest  glades — 
Here  yellow  cornfields  stack  their  peaceful  blades  ; 
There  the  deep  trench  where  Valour  finds  a  grave — 
Here  the  long  ditch  that  curbs  the  peaceful  wave  ; 
There  the  bold  sapper  with  his  lighted  train — 
Here  the  dark  tunnel  and  its  stores  of  gain  ; 
Here  the  full  harvest  and  the  wain's  advance — 
There  the  Grim  Reaper  and  the  ambulance. 


46  Poem. 

With  scenes  so  adverse,  what  mysterious  bond 
Links  our  fair  fortunes  to  the  shores  beyond? 
Why  come  we  here — last  of  a  scattered  fold — 
To  pour  new  metal  in  the  broken  mould  ? 
To  yield  our  tribute,  stamped  with  Caesar's  face, 
To  Caesar,  stricken  in  the  market-place  ? 

Ah  !  love  of  country  is  the  secret  tie 
That  joins  these  contrasts  'neath  one  arching  sky ; 
Though  brighter  paths  our  peaceful  steps  explore — 
We  meet  together  at  the  Nation's  door. 
War  winds  her  horn,  and  giant  cliffs  go  down 
Like  the  high  walls  that  girt  the  sacred  town, 
And  bares  the  pathway  to  her  throbbing  heart, 
From  clustered  village  and  from  crowded  mart 


Part  of  God's  providence  it  was  to  found 
A  Nation's  bulwark  on  this  chosen  ground — 
Not  Jesuit's  zeal  nor  pioneer's  unrest 
Planted  these  pickets  in  the  distant  West ; 
But  He  who  first  the  Nation's  fate  forecast 
Placed  here  His  fountains  sealed  for  ages  past, 
Rock-ribbed  and  guarded  till  the  coming  time 
Should  fit  the  people  for  their  work  sublime ; 
When  a  new  Moses  with  his  rod  of  steel 
Smote  the  tall  cliffs  with  one  wide-ringing  peal, 
And  the  old  miracle  in  record  told 
To  the  new  Nation  was  revealed  in  gold. 

Judge  not  too  idly  that  our  toils  are  mean, 
Though  no  new  levies  marshal  on  our  green ; 
Nor  deem  too  rashly  that  our  gains  are  small, 
Weighed  with  the  prizes  for  which  heroes  fall 


Poem.  47 

See,  where  thick  vapour  wreathes  the  battle-line  ; 
There  Mercy  follows  with  her  oil  and  wine  ; 
Or  when  brown  Labour  with  its  peaceful  charm 
Stiffens  the  sinews  of  the  Nation;s  arm. 

What  nerves  its  hands  to  strike  a  deadlier  blow 
And  hurl  its  legions  on  the  rebel  foe  ? 
Lo  !  for  each  town  new  rising  o'er  our  State 
See  the  foe's  hamlet  waste  and  desolate, 
While  each  new  factory  lifts  its  chimney  tall, 
Like  a  fresh  mortar  trained  on  Richmond's  wall 

For  this,  oh  !  brothers,  swings  the  fruitful  vine, 
Spread  our  broad  pastures  with  their  countless  kine  ; 
For  this  o'erhead  the  arching  vault  springs  clear, 
Sunlit  and  cloudless  for  one  half  the  year  ; 
For  this  no  snowflake,  e'er  so  lightly  pressed, 
Chills  the  warm  impulse  of  our  mother's  breast 

Quick  to  reply,  from  meadows  brown  and  sere, 
She  thrills  responsive  to  Spring's  earliest  tear ; 
Breaks  into  blossom,  flings  her  loveliest  rose 
Ere  the  white  crocus  mounts  Atlantic  snows ; 
And  the  example  of  her  liberal  creed 
Teaches  the  lesson  that  to-day  we  need. 

Thus  ours  the  lot  with  peaceful,  generous  hand 
To  spread  our  bounty  o'er  the  suffering  land ; 
As  the  deep  cleft  in  Mariposa's  wall 
Hurls  a  vast  river  splintering  in  its  fall — 
Though  the  rapt  soul  who  stands  in  awe  below 
Sees  but  the  arching  of  the  promised  bow — 
Lo  !  the  far  streamlet  drinks  its  dews  unseen, 
And  the  whole  valley  makes  a  brighter  green. 


'Blanche 


AND  you  are  the  poet,  and  so  you  want 

Something  —  what  is  it  ?  —  a  theme,  a  fancy  ? 
Something  or  other  the  Muse  won't  grant 

In  your  old  poetical  necromancy  ; 
Why  one  half  your  poets  —  you  can't  deny  — 

Don't  know  the  Muse  when  you  chance  to  meet  her, 
But  sit  in  your  attics  and  mope  and  sigh 
For  a  faineant  goddess  to  drop  from  the  sky, 
When  flesh  and  blood  may  be  standing  by 

Quite  at  your  service,  should  you  but  greet  her. 

What  if  I  told  you  my  own  romance  ? 

Women  are  poets,  if  you  so  take  them, 
One-third  poet  —  the  rest  what  chance 

Of  man  and  marriage  may  choose  to  make  them, 
Give  me  ten  minutes  before  you  go,  — 

Here  at  the  window  we'll  sit  together, 
Watching  the  currents  that  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Watching  the  world  as  it  drifts  below 
Up  to  the  hot  Avenue's  dusty  glow  : 

Isn't  it  pleasant  —  this  bright  June  weather  ? 

Well,  it  was  after  the  war  broke  out, 

And  I  was  a  school-girl  fresh  from  Paris  ; 

Papa  had  contracts,  and  roamed  about, 
And  I  —  did  nothing  —  for  I  was  an  heiress. 


Miss  Blanche  Says.  49 

Picked  some  lint,  now  I  think  ;  perhaps 
Knitted  some  stocking — a  dozen  nearly; 

Havelocks  made  for  the  soldiers'  caps ; 

Stood  at  fair  tables  and  peddled  traps 

Quite  at  a  profit.     The  "  shoulder-straps  " 

Thought  I  was  pretty.     Ah,  thank  you  !  really  ? 

Still  it  was  stupid.     Rata-tat-tat ! 

Those  were  the  sounds  of  that  battle  summer, 
Till  the  earth  seemed  a  parchment  round  and  flat, 

And  every  footfall  the  tap  of  a  drummer ; 
And  day  by  day  down  the  Avenue  went 

Cavalry,  infantry,  all  together, 
Till  my  pitying  angel  one  day  sent 
My  fate  in  the  shape  of  a  regiment, 
That  halted,  just  as  the  day  was  spent, 

Here  at  our  door  in  the  bright  June  weather. 

None  of  your  dandy  warriors  they, 

Men  from  the  West,  but  where  I  know  not ; 
Haggard  and  travel-stained,  worn  and  grey, 

With  never  a  ribbon  or  lace  or  bow-knot : 
And  I  opened  the  window,  and  leaning  there, 

I  felt  in  their  presence  the  free  winds  blowing ; 
My  neck  and  shoulders  and  arms  were  bare — 
I  did  not  dream  that  they  might  think  me  fair, 
But  I  had  some  flowers  thaj;  night  in  my  hair, 

And  here,  on  my  bosom,  a  red  rose  glowing. 

And  I  looked  from  the  window  along  the  line, 

Dusty  and  dirty  and  grim  and  solemn, 
Till  an  eye  like  a  bayonet  flash  met  mine, 

And  a  dark  face  grew  from  the  darkening  column, 
VOL.  i.  D 


50  Miss  Blanche  Says. 

And  a  quick  flame  leaped  to  my  eyes  and  hair, 

Till  cheeks  and  shoulders  burned  all  together, 
And  the  next  I  found  myself  standing  there 
With  my  eyelids  wet  and  my  cheeks  less  fair, 
And  the  rose  from  my  bosom  tossed  high  in  air, 
Like  a  blood-drop  falling  on  plume  and  feather. 

Then  I  drew  back  quickly  :  there  came  a  cheer, 

A  rush  of  figures,  a  noise  and  tussle, 
And  then  it  was  over,  and  high  and  clear 

My  red  rose  bloomed  on  his  gun's  black  muzzle. 
Then  far  in  the  darkness  a  sharp  voice  cried, 

And  slowly  and  steadily,  all  together, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  and  side  to  side, 
Rising  and  falling,  and  swaying  wide, 
But  bearing  above  them  the  rose,  my  pride, 

They  marched  away  in  the  twilight  weather. 

And  I  leaned  from  my  window  and  watched  my  rose 

Tossed  on  the  waves  of  the  surging  column, 
Warmed  from  above  in  the  sunset  glows, 

Borne  from  below  by  an  impulse  solemn. 
Then  I  shut  the  window.     I  heard  no  more 

Of  my  soldier  friend,  my  flower  neither, 
But  lived  my  life  as  I  did  before. 
I  did  not  go  as  a  nurse  to  the  war — 
Sick  folks  to  me  are  a  dreadful  bore — 

So  I  didn't  go  to  the  hospital  either. 

You  smile,  O  poet,  and  what  do  you  ? 

You  lean  from  your  window,  and  watch  life's  column 
Trampling  and  struggling  through  dust  and  dew, 

Filled  with  its  purposes  grave  and  solemn ; 


Miss  Blanche  Says.  5 1 

An  act,  a  gesture,  a  face — who  knows  ? — 
Touches  your  fancy  to  thrill  and  haunt  you, 

And  you  pluck  from  your  bosom  the  verse  that  grows, 

And  down  it  flies  like  my  red,  red  rose, 

And  you  sit  and  dream  as  away  it  goes, 

And  think  that  your  duty  is  done — now  don't  you  ? 

I  know  your  answer.     I'm  not  yet  through. 

Look  at  this  photograph — "  In  the  Trenches  ! " 
That  dead  man  in  the  coat  of  blue 

Holds  a  withered  rose  in  his  hand.     That  clenches 
Nothing  ! — except  that  the  sun  paints  true, 

And  a  woman  is  sometimes  prophetic-minded. 
And  that's  my  romance.     And,  poet,  you 
Take  it  and  mould  it  to  suit  your  view ; 
And  who  knows  but  you  may  find  it  too 

Come  to  your  heart  once  more,  as  mine  did. 


arctic  Hfeion. 


WHERE  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 
Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  Polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware  ; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine^ 
And  by  night  another  vermin,  — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Ellas'  cone  ; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships  ; 
Land  of  fox  and  deer  and  sable, 
Shore  end  of  our  western  cable,  — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  arctic  floes, 
And  reverberate  the  boast 
From  the  cliffs  off  Beechey's  coast, 
Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 
Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 
Throw  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 
To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 
Let  the  stately  Polar  bears 
Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 
And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 
Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory  ; 


An  Arctic  Vision.  53 

While  the  bold  sea-unicorn 
Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn ; 
All  ye  Polar  skies,  reveal  your 
Very  rarest  of  parhelia  ; 
Trip  it  all  ye  merry  dancers, 
In  the  airiest  of  "  Lancers ; " 
Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 
One  inch  farther  to  the  tide, 
Nor  in  rash  precipitation 
Upset  TyndalPs  calculation. 
Know  you  not  what  fate  awaits  you, 
Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you? 
All  ye  icebergs  make  salaam, — 
You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam  ! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Russ  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold ; 
Lean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor ! 
See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring ; 
On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain, 
Just  beside  the  deep  inden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild-duck's  clamour, 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 


54  An  Arctic  Vision. 


With  its  linguistic  disguises, 

Lo  !  the  Arctic  prologue  rises : — 

"Wa'll,  I  reckon  'tain't  so  bad, 

Seein'  ez  'twas  -all  they  had  ; 

True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late, 

And  early  Falls  predominate ; 

But  the  ice  crop 's  pretty  sure, 

And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure  ; 

'Tain't  so  very  mean  a  trade, 

When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 

There's  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 

All  along  this  recent  purchase, 

And,  unless  the  stories  fail, 

Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale ; 

Rocks,  too ;  mebbe  quartz ;  let's  see, — 

'Twould  be  strange  if  there  should  be, — 

Seems  I've  heerd  such  stories  told ; 

Eh  ! — why,  bless  us, — yes,  it's  gold  1 " 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick, 
You  may  recognise  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw, — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer, 


(     55    ) 


(A  GEOGRAPHICAL  SURVEY,  1 868.) 

VERY  fair  and  full  of  promise 
Lay  the  island  of  St.  Thomas : 
Ocean  o'er  its  reefs  and  bars 
Hid  its  elemental  scars  ; 
Groves  of  cocoanut  and  guava 
Grew  above  its  fields  of  lava. 
So  the  gem  of  the  Antilles, — 
"  Isles  of  Eden,"  where  no  ill  is, — 
Like  a  great  green  turtle  slumbered 
On  the  sea  that  it  encumbered. 
Then  said  William  Henry  Seward, 
As  he  cast  his  eye  to  leeward, 
"  Quite  important  to  our  commerce 
Is  this  island  of  St.  Thomas." 

Said  the  Mountain  ranges,  "  Thank'ee, 
But  we  cannot  stand  the  Yankee 
O'er  our  scars  and  fissures  poring, 
In  our  very  vitals  boring, 
In  our  sacred  caverns  prying, 
All  our  secret  problems  trying, — 
Digging,  blasting,  with  dynamit 
Mocking  all  our  thunders !     Damn  it ! 


56  St.  Thomas. 

Other  lands  may  be  more  civil, 
Bust  our  lava  crust  if  we  will ! " 


Said  the  Sea,  its  white  teeth  gnashing 
Through  its  coral-reef  lips  flashing, 
"  Shall  I  let  this  scheming  mortal 
Shut  with  stone  my  shining  portal, 
Curb  my  tide  and  check  my  play, 
Fence  with  wharves  my  shining  bay  ? 
Rather  let  me  be  drawn  out 
In  one  awful  waterspout ! " 

Said  the  black-browed  Hurricane, 
Brooding  down  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  Shall  I  see  my  forces,  zounds  ! 
Measured  by  square  inch  and  pounds, 
With  detectives  at  my  back 
When  I  double  on  my  track, 
And  my  secret  paths  made  clear, 
Published  o'er  the  hemisphere 
To  each  gaping,  prying  crew  ? 
Shall  I  ?     Blow  me  if  I  do  !  " 

So  the  Mountains  shook  and  thundered, 
And  the  Hurricane  came  sweeping, 
And  the  people  stared  and  wondered 
As  the  Sea  came  on  them  leaping : 
Each,  according  to  his  promise, 
Made  things  lively  at  St.  Thomas. 

Till  one  morn,  when  Mr.  Seward 
Cast  his  weather  eye  to  leeward, 
There  was  not  an  inch  of  dry  land 
Left  to  mark  his  recent  island. 


Thomas.  57 


Not  a  flagstaff  or  a  sentry, 
Not  a  wharf  or  port  of  entry,  — 
Only  —  to  cut  matters  shorter  — 
Just  a  patch  of  muddy  water 
In  the  open  ocean  lying, 
And  a  gull  above  it  flying. 


Dff 

(SEPTEMBER  1779.) 


"  HAVE  a  care  ! "  the  bailiffs  cried 
From  their  cockleshell  that  lay 
Off  the  frigate's  yellow  side, 

Tossing  on  Scarborough  Bay, 
While  the  forty   sail  it  convoyed  on  a  bowline   stretched 

away; 

"  Take  your  chicks  beneath  your  wings, 
And  your  claws  and  feathers  spread, 
Ere  the  hawk  upon  them  springs — 

Ere  around  Flamborough  Head 

Swoops  Paul  Jones,  the  Yankee  falcon,  with  his  beak  and 
talons  red" 

*  II. 

How  we  laughed  ! — my  mate  and  I — 

On  the  "  Bon  Homme  Richard's  "  deck, — 
As  we  saw  that  convoy  fly 

Like  a  snow  squall,  till  each  fleck 
Melted  in  the  twilight  shadows  of  the  coast-line,  speck  by 

speck ; 

And  scuffling  back  to  shore 
The  Scarborough  bailiffs  sped, 


Off  Scarborough.  5  9 

As  the  "  Richard,"  with  a  roar 

Of  her  cannon  round  the  Head, 

Crossed  her   royal  yards  and    signalled    to  her    consort : 
« Chase  ahead!" 


in. 

But  the  devil  seize  Landais 

In  that  consort  ship  of  France ! 
For  the  shabby,  lubber  way 

That  he  worked  the  "  Alliance  " 

In  the  offing, — nor  a  broadside   fired   save  to  our  mis 
chance  ! — 
When  tumbling  to  the  van, 

With  his  battle-lanterns  set, 
Rose  the  burly  Englishman 

'Gainst  our  hull  as  black  as  jet — 
Rode  the  yellow-sided  "  Serapis,"  and  all  alone  we  met ! 


IV. 

All  alone — though  far  at  sea 

Hung  his  consort,  rounding  to ; 
All  alone — though  on  our  lee 

Fought  our  "  Pallas,"  stanch  and  true  ! 
For  the  first   broadside  around  us   both    a   smoky  circle 

drew: 
And,  like  champions  in  a  ring, 

There  was  cleared  a  little  space — 
Scarce  a  cable's  length  to  swing  — 

Ere  we  grappled  in  embrace, 

All  the  world  shut  out  around  us,  and  we  only  face  to 
face! 


60  Off  Scarborough. 


v. 

Then  awoke  all  hell  below 

From  that  broadside,  doubly  curst, 
For  our  long  eighteens  in  row 

Leaped  the  first  discharge  and  burst ! 
And  on  deck  our  men  came  pouring,   fearing  their  own 

guns  the  worst. 

And  as  dumb  we  lay,  till,  through 
Smoke  and  flame  and  bitter  cry, 
Hailed  the  "  Serapis  " — "  Have  you 
Struck  your  colours  ?  "     Our  reply, 

"We  have  not  yet  begun  to  fight!"  went  shouting  to  the 
sky! 


VI. 

Roux  of  Brest,  old  fisher,  lay 

Like  a  herring  gasping  here; 
Bunker  of  Nantucket  Bay, 

Blown  from  out  the  port,  dropped  sheer 
Half  a  cable's  length  to  leeward ;  yet  we  faintly  raised  a  cheer 
As  with  his  own  right  hand, 

Our  Commodore  made  fast 
The  foeman's  head-gear  and 

The  "Richard's"  mizzen-mast, 

And  in  that  death-lock  clinging  held  us  there  from  first  to 
last! 


VII. 

Yet  the  foeman,  gun  on  gun, 

Through  the  "  Richard  "  tore  a  road — 


Off  Scarborough.  6 1 

With  his  gunners'  rammers  run 

Through  our  ports  at  every  load, 
Till  clear  the  blue  beyond  us  through  our  yawning  timbers 

showed. 

Yet  with  entrails  torn  we  clung 
Like  the  Spartan  to  our  fox, 
And  on  deck  no  coward  tongue 

Wailed  the  enemy's  hard  knocks, 
Nor  that  all  below  us  trembled  like  a  wreck  upon  the  rocks. 


VIII. 

Then  a  thought  rose  in  my  brain, 

As  through  Channel  mists  the  sun. 
From  our  tops  a  fire  like  rain 

Drove  below  decks  every  one 

Of  the  enemy's  ship's  company  to  hide  or  work  a  gun, 
And  that  thought  took  shape  as  I 

On  the  "  Richard's"  yard  lay  out, 
That  a  man  might  do  and  die, 
If  the  doing  brought  about 

Freedom  for  his  home  and  country,  and  his  messmates' 
cheering  shout ! 

IX. 

Then  I  crept  out  in  the  dark 

Till  I  hung  above  the  hatch 
Of  the  "  Serapis  "—a  mark 

For  her  marksmen  ! — with  a  match 
And  a  hand-grenade,  but  lingered  just  a  moment  more  to 

snatch 

One  last  look  at  sea  and  sky ! 
At  the  lighthouse  on  the  hill  I 


6  2  Off  Scarborough. 

At  the  harvest-moon  on  high  ! 

And  our  pine  flag  fluttering  still ; 

Then  turned  and  down  her  yawning  throat  I  launched  that 
devil's  pill ! 


Then  a  blank  was  all  between 

As  the  flames  around  me  spun ! 
Had  I  fired  the  magazine  ? 

Was  the  victory  lost  or  won  ? 
Nor  knew  I  till  the  fight  was  o'er  but  half  my  work  was 

done : 
For  I  lay  among  the  dead 

In  the  cockpit  of  our  foe, 
With  a  roar  above  my  head — 
Till  a  trampling  to  and  fro, 

And  a  lantern  showed  my  mate's  face,  and  I  knew  what 
now  you  know  1 


SPANISH  IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS. 


65 


Cfie  Spiracle  of  patire  Junipero. 

THIS  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 
Tells  of  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 

The  heathen  stood  on  his  ancient  mound, 

Looking  over  the  desert  bound 

Into  the  distant,  hazy  South, 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Where,  with  many  a  gaping  mouth 

And  fissure,  cracked  by  the  fervid  drouth, 

For  seven  months  had  the  wasted  plain 

Known  no  moisture  of  dew  or  rain. 

The  wells  were  empty  and  choked  with  sand ; 

The  rivers  had  perished  from  the  land ; 

Only  the  sea-fogs  to  and  fro 

Slipped  like  ghosts  of  the  streams  below. 

Deep  in  its  bed  lay  the  river's  bones, 

Bleaching  in  pebbles  and  milk-white  stones, 

And  tracked  o'er  the  desert  faini  and  far, 

Its  ribs  shone  bright  on  each  sandy  bar. 

Thus  they  stood  as  the  sun  went  down 
Over  the  foot-hills  bare  and  brown ; 
VOL.  i.  E 


66  The  Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero. 

Thus  they  looked  to  the  South,  wherefrom 

The  pale-face  medicine-man  should  come, 

Not  in  anger  or  in  strife, 

But  to  bring — so  ran  the  tale — 

The  welcome  springs  of  eternal  life, 

The  living  waters  that  should  not  fail. 

Said  one,  "  He  will  come  like  Manitou, 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  the  falling  dew." 
Said  another,  "  He  will  come  full  soon 
Out  of  the  round-faced  watery  moon." 
And  another  said,  "He  is  here  !"  and  lo, — ' 
Faltering,  staggering,  feeble  and  slow, — 
Out  from  the  desert's  blinding  heat 
The  Padre  dropped  at  the  heathen's  feet 
They  stood  and  gazed  for  a  little  space 
Down  on  his  pallid  and  careworn  face, 
And  a  smile  of  scorn  went  round  the  band 
As  they  touched  alternate  with  foot  and  hand 
This  mortal  waif,  that  the  outer  space 
Of  dim  mysterious  sky  and  sand 
Flung  with  So  little  of  Christian  grace 
Down  on  their  barren,  sterile  strand. 

Said  one  to  him  :  "  It  seems  thy  God 

Is  a  very  pitiful  kind  of  God ; 

He  could  not  shield  thine  aching  eyes 

From  the  blowing  desert  sands  that  rise, 

Nor  turn  aside  from  thy  old  grey  head 

The  glittering  blade  that  is  brandished 

By  the  sun  He  set  in  the  heavens  high; 

He  could  not  moisten  thy  lips  when  dry ; 

The  desert  fire  is  in  thy  brain ; 

Thy  limbs  are  racked  with  the  fever-pain  : 


The  Miracle  of  Padre  Juniper o.          6  7 

If  this  be  the  grace  He  showeth  thee 

Who  art  His  servant,  what  may  we, 

Strange  to  His  ways  and  His  commands, 

Seek  at  His  unforgiving  hands  ?  " 

"  Drink  but  this  cup,"  said  the  Padre,  straight, 

"  And  thou  shalt  know  whose  mercy  bore 

These  aching  limbs  to  your  heathen  door, 

And  purged  my  soul  of  its  gross  estate. 

Drink  in  His  name,  and  thou  shalt  see 

The  hidden  depths  of  this  mystery. 

Drink ! "  and  he  held  the  cup.     One  blow 

From  the  heathen  dashed  to  the  ground  below 

The  sacred  cup  that  the  Padre  bore, 

And  the  thirsty  soil  drank  the  precious  store 

Of  sacramental  and  holy  wine, 

That  emblem  and  consecrated  sign 

And  blessed  symbol  of  blood  divine. 

Then,  says  the  legend  (and  they  who  doubt 

The  same  as  heretics  be  accurst), 

From  the  dry  and  feverish  soil  leaped  out 

A  living  fountain  ;  a  well-spring  burst 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Over  the  sandy  and  sterile  plain, 

Till  the  granite  ribs  and  the  milk-white  stones 

That  lay  in  the  valley — the  scattered  bones — 

Moved  in  the  river  and  lived  again ! 

Such  was  the  wonderful  miracle 

Wrought  by  the  cup  of  wine  that  fell 

From  the  hands  of  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 

The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


Cfje  aBonUerful  Spring  of  ©an 
foaquin, 

OF  all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing, — 

Crystal,  thermal,  or  mineral  spring ; 

Ponce  de  Leon's  Fount  of  Youth  ; 

Wells  with  bottoms  of  doubtful  truth ; 

In  short,  of  all  the  springs  of  Time 

That  ever  were  flowing  in  fact  or  rhyme, 

That  ever  were  tasted,  felt,  or  seen,— 

There  were  none  like  the  Spring  of  San  Joaquin. 

Anno  Domini  Eighteen-seven, 

Father  Dominguez  (now  in  heaven, — 

Obiity  Eighteen  twenty-seven) 

Found  the  spring,  and  found  it,  too, 

By  his  mule's  miraculous  cast  of  a  shoe ; 

For  his  beast — a  descendant  of  Balaam's  ass — 

Stopped  on  the  instant,  and  would  not  pass. 

The  Padre  thought  the  omen  good, 

And  bent  his  lips  to  the  trickling  flood ; 

Then — as  the  Chronicles  declare, 

On  the  honest  faith  of  a  true  believer — 

His  cheeks,  though  wasted,  lank,  and  bare, 

Filled  like  a  withered  russet-pear 

In  the  vacuum  of  a  glass  receiver, 


The  Wonder/id  Spring  of  San  Joaquin.   69 

And  the  snows  that  seventy  winters  bring 
Melted  away  in  that  magic  spring. 


Such,  at  least,  was  the  wondrous  news 
The  Padre  brought  into  Santa  Cruz. 
The  Church,  of  course,  had  its  own  views 
Of  who  were  worthiest  to  use 
The  magic  spring ;  but  the  prior  claim 
Fell  to  the  aged,  sick,  and  lame. 
Far  and  wide  the  people  came : 
Some  from  the  healthful  Aptos  Creek 
Hastened  to  bring  their  helpless  sick ; 
Even  the  fishers  ot  rude  Soquel 
Suddenly  found  they  were  far  from  well ; 
The  brawny  dwellers  of  San  Lorenzo 
Said,  in  fact,  they  had  never  been  so : 
And  all  were  ailing, — strange  to  say, — • 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey. 

Over  the  mountain  they  poured  in, 
With  leathern  bottles  and  bags  of  skin ; 
Through  the  canons  a  motley  throng 
Trotted,  hobbled,  and  limped  along. 
The  Fathers  gazed  at  the  moving  scene 
With  pious  joy  and  with  souls  serene ; 
And  then — a  result  perhaps  foreseen — 
They  laid  out  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin, 


Not  in  the  eyes  of  faith  alone 
The  good  effects  of  the  water  shone ; 
But  skins  grew  rosy,  eyes  waxed  clear, 
Of  rough  vaquero  and  muleteer ; 


70    The  Wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin. 

Angular  forms  were  rounded  out, 
Limbs  grew  supple  and  waists  grew  stout ; 
And  as  for  the  girls — for  miles  about 
They  had  no  equal !     To  this  day, 
From  Pescadero  to  Monterey, 
You'll  still  find  eyes  in  which  are  seen 
The  liquid  graces  of  San  Joaquin. 


There  is  a  limit  to  humnn  bliss, 
/  And  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin  had  this ; 
None  went  abroad  to  roam  or  stay, 
But  they  fell  sick  in  the  queerest  way, — 
A  singular  maladie  du  pays, 
With  gastric  symptoms  :  so  they  spent 
Their  days  in  a  sensuous  content, 
Caring  little  for  things  unseen 
Beyond  their  bowers  of  living  green, — 
Beyond  the  mountains  that  lay  between 
The  world  and  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


Winter  passed  and  the  summer  came ; 
The  trunks  of  madrono,  all  aflame, 
Here  and  there  through  the  underwood 
Like  pillars  of  fire  starkly  stood. 
All  of  the  breezy  solitude 

Was  filled  with  the  spicing  of  pine  and  bay 
And  resinous  odours  mixed  and  blended, 

And  dim  and  ghost-like,  far  away, 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  woods  ascended. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  mountains  swam, 
The  rivers  piled  their  floods  in  a  dam, 
The  ridge  above  Los  Gatos  Creek 


f 


The  Wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin.    7 1 

Arched  its  spine  in  a  feline  fashion ; 
The  forests  waltzed  till  they  grew  sick, 

And  Nature  shook  in  a  speechless  passion ; 
And,  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake's  spleen, 
The  wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin 
Vanished,  and  never  more  was  seen  I 


Two  days  passed  :  the  Mission  folk 

Out  of  their  rosy  dream  awoke ; 

Some  of  them  looked  a  trifle  white, 

But  that,  no  doubt,  was  from  earthquake  fright 

Three  days  :  there  was  sore  distress, 

Headache,  nausea,  giddiness. 

Four  days  :  faintings,  tenderness 

Of  the  mouth  and  fauces  ;  and  in  less 

Than  one  week,. — here  the  story  closes ; 

We  won't  continue  the  prognosis, — 

Enough  that  now  no  trace  is  seen 

Of  Spring  or  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


MORAL. 

You  see  the  point  ?     Don't  be  too  quick 
To  break  bad  habits  :  better  stick, 
Like  the  Mission  folk,  to  your  arsenic. 


Cfje 

(HEARD  AT  THE  MISSION  DOLORES,   1868.) 

BELLS  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 
Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 

Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  Present 
With  colour  of  romance  ! 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 
On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 

As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices,  blending, 
Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 
No  blight  nor  mildew  falls  ; 

Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 
Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 
I  touch  the  farther  Past, — 

I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 
The  sunset  dream  and  last ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio ; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 


The  Angelus.  73 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting 

The  freighted  galleon. 

O  solemn  bells  !  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old,— 
O  tinkling  bells  !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold ! 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still ; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill  I 


(     74    ) 


Conception  tie  3rguetto, 

(PRESIDIO  DE  SAN  FRANCISCO,  1800.) 


LOOKING  seaward,  o'er  the  sandhills  stands  the  fortress, 

old  and  quaint, 
By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their  patron  saint, — 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apostate  to  the  creed, 
On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw  the  angel's  golden 
reed  ; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all  its  blazon  brushed 

away ; 
And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a  triumph  of  to-day. 

Never   scar  of  siege   or  battle   challenges   the  wandering 

eye- 
Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the  curious  passer-by ; 

Only  one  sweet  human  fancy  interweaves  its  threads  of  gold 
With  the  plain  and  home-spun  present,  and  a  love  that  ne'er 
grows  old : 


Conception  de  Arguello.  75 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls  above  the  meaner 

dust, — 
Listen  to  the  simple  story  of  a  woman's  love  and  trust 


Count  von  Resanoff,  the  Russian,  envoy  of  the  mighty  Czar, 
Stood  beside  the  deep  embrasures  where  the  brazen  cannon 
are; 

He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  Jong  had  held  serene 

debate 
On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high  affairs  of  state ; 

He  from  grave  provincial  magnates  oft  had  turned  to  talk 

apart 
With  the  Commandante's  daughter  on  the  questions  of  the 

heart, 

Until  points  of  gravest  import  yielded  slowly  one  by  one, 
And  by  Love  was  consummated  what  Diplomacy  begun ; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
He  received  the  twofold  contract  for  approval  of  the  Czar ; 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  betrothed  bade  adieu, 
And,  from  sallyport  and  gateway,  north  the  Russian  eagles 
flew. 


76  Conception  de  Arguello. 


m. 

Long  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
Did  they  wait  the  promised  bridegroom  and  the  answer  of 

the  Czar ; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the  hollow,  empty 

breeze, — 
Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the  vacant,  smiling 

seas ; 

Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened  in  their  dusty  leather 

cloaks, — 
Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened  from  the  fringing  plain 

of  oaks , 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on  the  fierce  south- 
wester  tost, 

Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  colour,  and  then  vanished 
and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted, — wet  and  warm  and  drear 

and  dry ; 
Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers, — half  a  year  of  dust  and 

sky. 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message, — brought  no  tidings,  ill 

or  meet, 
For  the  statesmanlike  Commander,  for  the  daughter  fair 

and  sweet. 


Conception  de  Arguello.  77 

Yet  she  heard  the  varying  message,  voiceless  to  all  ears 

beside  : 
"  He  will  come,"  the  flowers  whispered ;  "  Come  no  more," 

the  dry  hills  sighed. 


Still  she  found  him  with  the  waters  lifted  by  the  morning 

breeze, — 
Still  she  lost  him  with  the  folding  of  the  great  white-tented 

seas  : 


Until  hollows  chased  the  dimples  from  her  cheeks  of  olive 

brown, 
And  at  times  a  swift,  shy  moisture  dragged  the  long  sweet 

lashes  down ; 


Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered  as  for  some  denied 

caress, 
And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in  an  infantine  distress. 

Then  the  grim  Commander,  pacing  where  the  brazen  cannon 

are, 
Comforted  the  maid  with  proverbs, — wisdom  gathered  from 

afar; 


Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers  garnered,  each 
As  a  pebble  worn  and  polished  in  the  current  of  his  speech  : 


"'Those  who  wait  the  coming  rider  travel  twice  as  far 

as  he;' 
'Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never  did  in  time  agree ;' 


78  Concepcion  de  Arguello. 

"  *  He  that  getteth  himself  honey,  though  a  clown,  he  shall 

have  flies ; ; 
'  In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller ; '  '  In  the  dark  the  mole 

has  eyes ; ' 

" '  He  whose  father  is  Alcalde  of  his  trial  hath  no  fear/ — 
And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that  will  make  his  con 
duct  clear." 

Then  the  voice  sententious  faltered,  and  the  wisdom  it  would 

teach 
Lost  itself  in  fondest  trifles  of  his  soft  Castilian  speech ; 

And  on  "  Concha,"  "  Conchitita,"  and  "  Conchita  "  he  would 

dwell 
With  the  fond  reiteration  which  the  Spaniard  knows  so  well, 

So  with  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  in  faith  and  half  in  doubt, 
Every  day  some  hope  was  kindled,  flickered,  faded,  and 
went  out 


IV. 

Yearly,  down  the  hillside  sweeping,  came  the  stately  caval 
cade, 
Bringing  revel  to  vaquero,  joy  and  comfort  to  each  maid  ; 

Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast  and  rustic  sport ; 
Of  bull-baiting  on  the  plaza,  of  love-making  in  the  court. 

Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice,  vainly  as  the  idle  wind, 
Rose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that  bespoke  the  youth 
too  kind ; 


Concepcion  de  Arguello.  79 

Vainly,  leaning  from  their  saddles,  caballeros,  bold   and 

fleet, 
Plucked  for  her  the   buried  chicken  from   beneath   their 

mustang's  feet ; 

So  in  vain  the  barren  hillsides  with  their  gay  serapes  blazed, 
Blazed  and  vanished  in  the  dust-cloud  that  their  flying  hoofs 
had  raised. 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart,  and  once  more,  with 

patient  mien, 
The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each  took  up  the  dull 

routine, — 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life  apart  and  lone, 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in  its  dreary  monotone. 


v. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  swept  the  hollow  idle 

breeze, 
Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered  from  the  California  seas ; 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought  its  slow  but  sure 

decay, 
And  St.  George's  cross  was  lifted  in  the  port  of  Monterey ; 

And  the  citadel  was  lighted,  and  the  hall  was  gaily  drest, 
All  to  honour  Sir  George  Simpson,  famous  traveller  and 
guest. 

Far  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the  costly  banquet  set, 
And  exchanged  congratulations  with  the  English  baronet ; 


8o  Conception  de  Arguello. 

Till,  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and  amidst  the  laugh  and 

wine, 
Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover, — heedless  of  the  warning 

sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson  :  "  Speak  no  ill  of 

him,  I  pray — 
He  is  dead     He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty  years  ago  this  day. 

"  Died  while  speeding  home  to  Russia,  falling  from  a  frac 
tious  horse. 

Left  a  sweetheart,  too,  they  tell  me.  Married,  I  suppose,  of 
course ! 

"Lives  she  yet?"     A  death-like  silence  fell  on  banquet, 

guests,  and  hall, 
And  a  trembling  figure  rising  fixed  the  awestruck  gaze  of 

all 

Two  black  eyes  in  darkened  orbits  gleamed  beneath  the 

nun's  white  hood ; 
Black  serge  hid  the  wasted  figure,  bowed  and  stricken  where 

it  stood. 

"  Lives  she  yet  ?  "  Sir  George  repeated.     All  were  hushed  as 

Concha  drew 
Closer  yet  her  nun's  attire.     "  Sefior,  pardon,  she  died  too  ! " 


(    8i     ) 


«  JTo*  tfce 

(NORTHERN  MEXICO,  1640.) 

As  you  look  from  the  plaza  at  Leon  west 

You  can  see  her  house,  but  the  view  is  best 

From  the  porch  of  the  church  where  she  lies  at  rest, 

Where  much  of  her  past  still  lives,  I  think, 
In  the  scowling  brows  and  sidelong  blink 
Of  the  worshipping  throng  that  rise  or  sink 

To  the  waxen  saints  that,  yellow  and  lank, 
Lean  out  from  their  niches,  rank  on  rank, 
With  a  bloodless  Saviour  on  either  flank; 

In  the  gouty  pillars,  whose  cracks  begin 

To  show  the  adobe  core  within, — 

A  soul  of  earth  in  a  whitewashed  skin. 

And  I  think  that  the  moral  of  all,  you'll  say, 
Is  the  sculptured  legend  that  molds  away 
On  a  tomb  in  the  choir  :  "  For  el  Rey." 

"  For  el  Rey  ! "     Well,  the  king  is  gone 

Ages  ago,  and  the  Hapsburg  one 

Shot — but  the  Rock  of  the  Church  lives  on. 

VOL.  I.  F 


82  "For  the  King. 

"  For  el  Rey  !  "     What  matters,  indeed, 

If  king  or  president  succeed 

To  a  country  haggard  with  sloth  and  greed, 

As  long  as  one  granary  is  fat, 

And  yonder  priest,  in  a  shovel  hat, 

Peeps  out  from  the  bin  like  a  sleek  brown  rat  ? 

What  matters  ?     Nought,  if  it  serves  to  bring 
The  legend  nearer, — no  other  thing, — 
We'll  spare  the  moral,  "  Live  the  king  ! " 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  they  say, 
The  Viceroy,  Marquis  of  Monte-Rey, 
Rode  with  his  retinue  that  way ; 

Grave,  as  befitted  Spain's  grandee, 
Grave,  as  the  substitute  should  be 
Of  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty; 

Yet,  from  his  black  plume's  curving  grace 
To  his  slim  black  gauntlet's  smaller  space, 
Exquisite  as  a  piece  of  lace  ! 

Two  hundred  years  ago — e'en  so — 

The  Marquis  stopped  where  the  lime-trees  blow, 

While  Leon's  seneschal  bent  him  low, 

And  begged  that  the  Marquis  would  that  night  take 

His  humble  roof  for  the  royal  sake, 

And  then,  as  the  custom  demanded,  spake 

The  usual  wish,  that  his  guest  would  hold 

The  house,  and  all  that  it  might  enfold, 

As  his — with  the  bride  scarce  three  days  old. 


"For  the  King."  83 

Be  sure  that  the  Marquis,  in  his  place, 
Replied  to  all  with  the  measured  grace 
Of  chosen  speech  and  unmoved  face  ; 

Nor  raised  his  head  till  his  black  plume  swept 
The  hem  of  the  lady's  robe,  who  kept 
Her  place,  as  her  husband  backward  stept 

And  then  (I  know  not  how  nor  why) 
A  subtle  flame  in  the  lady's  eye — 
Unseen  by  the  courtiers  standing  by — 

Burned  through  his  lace  and  titled  wreath, 
Burned  through  his  body's  jewelled  sheath, 
Till  it  touched  the  steel  of  the  man  beneath  ! 

(And  yet,  mayhap,  no  more  was  meant 
Than  to  point  a  well-worn  compliment, 
And  the  lady's  beauty,  her  worst  intent.) 

Howbeit,  the  Marquis  bowed  again : 
"  Who  rules  with  awe  well  serve th  Spain, 
But  best  whose  law  is  love  made  plain." 

Be  sure  that  night  no  pillow  pressed 
The  seneschal,  but  with  the  rest 
Watched, — as  was  due  a  royal  guest, — 

Watched  from  the  wall  till  he  saw  the  square 
Fill  with  the  moonlight,  white  and  bare, — 
Watched  till  he  saw  two  shadows  fare 

Out  from  his  garden,  where  the  shade 
That  the  old  church  tower  and  belfry  made 
Like  a  benedictory  hand  was  laid. 


84  "For  the  King? 

Few  words  spoke  the  seneschal  as  he  turned 

To  his  nearest  sentry :  "  These  monks  have  learned 

That  stolen  fruit  is  sweetly  earned. 

"  Myself  shall  punish  yon  acolyte 

Who  gathers  my  garden  grapes  by  night ; 

Meanwhile,  wait  thou  till  the  morning  light." 

Yet  not  till  the  sun  was  riding  high 

Did  the  sentry  meet  his  commander's  eye, 

Nor  then  till  the  Viceroy  stood  by. 

To  the  lovers  of  grave  formalities 

No  greeting  was  ever  so  fine,  I  wis, 

As  this  host's  and  guest's  high  courtesies  ! 

The  seneschal  feared,  as  the  wind  was  west, 
A  blast  from  Morena  had  chilled  his  rest  \ 
The  Viceroy  languidly  confessed 

That  cares  of  state,  and — he  dared  to  say — 
Some  fears  that  the  King  could  not  repay 
The  thoughtful  zeal  of  his  host,  some  way 

Had  marred  his  rest.  Yet  he  trusted  much 
None  shared  his  wakefulness  ;  though  such 
Indeed  might  be  !  If  he  dared  to  touch 

A  theme  so  fine — the  bride,  perchance, 
Still  slept !     At  least,  they  missed  her  glance 
To  give  this  greeting  countenance. 

Be  sure  that  the  seneschal,  in  turn, 

Was  deeply  bowed  with  the  grave  concern 

Of  the  painful  news  his  guest  should  learn : 


"For  the  King:'  85 

"Last  night,  to  her  father's  dying  bed 
By  a  priest  was  the  lady  summoned  ; 
Nor  know  we  yet  how  well  she  sped, 

"  But  hope  for  the  best."     The  grave  Viceroy 
(Though  grieved  his  visit  had  such  alloy) 
Must  still  wish  the  seneschal  great  joy 

Cf  a  bride  so  true  to  her  filial  trust ! 
Yet  now,  as  the  day  waxed  on,  they  must 
To  horse,  if  they'd  'scape  the  noonday  dust. 

"Nay,"  said  the  seneschal,  "at  least, 
To  mend  the  news  of  this  funeral  priest, 
Myself  shall  ride  as  your  escort  east." 

The  Viceroy  bowed.     Then  turned  aside 
To  his  nearest  follower  :  "  With  me  ride — 
You  and  Felipe — on  either  side. 

"  And  list !     Should  anything  me  befall, 
Mischance  of  ambush  or  musket-ball,  - 
Cleave  to  his  saddle  yon  seneschal ! 

"  No  more."     Then  gravely  in  accents  clear 
Took  formal  leave  of  his  late  good  cheer ; 
Whiles  the  seneschal  whispered  a  musketeer, 

Carelessly  stroking  his  pommel  top  : 
"  If  from  the  saddle  ye  see  me  drop, 
Riddle  me  quickly  yon  solemn  fop  ! " 

So  these,  with  many  a  compliment, 
Each  on  his  own  dark  thought  intent, 
With  grave  politeness  onward  went, 


86  "For  the  King:' 

Riding  high,  and  in  sight  of  all, 
Viceroy,  escort,  and  seneschal, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  Almandral ; 

Holding  their  secret  hard  and  fast, 
Silent  and  grave  they  ride  at  last 
Into  the  dusty  travelled  Past. 

Even  like  this  they  passed  away 
Two  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 
What  of  the  lady  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 

Do  the  souls  of  the  dying  ever  yearn 

To  some  favoured  spot  for  the  dust's  return- 

For  the  homely  peace  of  the  family  urn  ? 

I  know  not.     Yet  did  the  seneschal, 
Chancing  in  after  years  to  fall 
Pierced  by  a  Flemish  musket-ball, 

Call  to  his  side  a  trusty  friar, 

And  bid  him  swear,  as  his  last  desire, 

To  bear  his  corse  to  San  Pedro's  choir 

At  Leon,  where  'neath  a  shield  azure 
Should  his  mortal  frame  find  sepulture ; 
This  much,  for  the  pains  Christ  did  endure. 

Be  sure  that  the  friar  loyally 
Fulfilled  his  trust  by  land  and  sea, 
Till  the  spires  of  Leon  silently 

Rose  through  the  green  of  the  Almandral, 

As  if  to  beckon  the  seneschal 

To  his  kindred  dust  'neath  the  choir  wall. 


"For  the  King"  87 

I  wot  that  the  saints  on  either  side 

Leaned  from  their  niches  open-eyed 

To  see  the  doors  of  the  church  swing  wide — 

That  the  wounds  of  the  Saviour  on  either  flank 
Bled  fresh,  as  the  mourners,  rank  by  rank, 
Went  by  with  the  coffin,  clank  on  clank. 

For  why  ?     When  they  raised  the  marble  door 
Of  the  tomb,  untouched  for  years  before, 
The  friar  swooned  on  the  choir  floor ; 

For  there,  in  her  laces  and  festal  dress, 
Lay  the  dead  man's  wife,  her  loveliness 
Scarcely  changed  by  her  long  duress ; 

As  on  the  night  she  had  passed  away — 

Only  that  near  her  a  dagger  lay, 

With  the  written  legend,  "For  el  Rey." 

What  was  their  greeting — the  groom  and  bride, 
They  whom  that  steel  and  the  years  divide  ? 
I  know  not.     Here  they  lie  side  by  side. 

Side  by  side  !     Though  the  king  has  his  way, 
Even  the  dead  at  last  have  their  day. 
Make  you  the  moral.     "  Por  el  Rey  ! " 


iRamon* 

(REFUGIO  MINE,  NORTHERN  MEXICO.) 

DRUNK  and  senseless  in  his  place, 

Prone  and  sprawling  on  his  face, 
More  like  brute  than  any  man 
Alive  or  dead, — 

By  his  great  pump  out  of  gear, 

Lay  the  peon  engineer, 

Waking  only  just  to  hear, 
Overhead, 

Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 

Oaths  and  cries  of  bitter  blarne — 
Woke  to  hear  all  this,  and,  waking,  turned  and  fled  ! 

"To  the  man  who'll  bring  to  me," 

Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee, — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine, — 

"  Bring  the  sot  alive  or  dead, 

I  will  give  to  him,"  he  said, 

"  Fifteen  hundred  pesos  down, 

Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine  : 
Since  but  death 

Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 

Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed, 


Ramon.  89 

Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath, — 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine  ! ;; 


No  one  answered  ;  for  a  cry 
From  the  shaft  rose  up  on  high, 
And  shuffling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  below, 
Came  the  miners  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  weaker's  shoulder, 
Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go, 

As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well, — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Down  below ! 

a  To  the  man  who  sets  them  free," 
Cried  the  foreman,  Harry  Lee, — 

Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine,— 
"  Brings  them  out  and  sets  them  free, 
I  will  give  that  man,"  said  he, 
"  Twice  that  sum,  who  with  a  rope 
Face  to  face  with  Death  shall  cope. 
Let  him  come  who  dares  to  hope  ! " 
"  Hold  your  peace  ! "  some  one  replied, 
Standing  by  the  foreman's  side ; 

"  There  has  one  already  gone,  whoe'er  he  be  ! " 

Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 
Pulling  on  the  rope,  and  saw 
Fainting  figures  reappear, 
On  the  black  rope  swinging  clear, 
Fastened  by  some  skilful  hand  from  below ; 


go  Ramon. 

Till  a  score  the  level  gained, 
And  but  one  alone  remained, — 
He  the  hero  and  the  last, 
He' whose  skilful  hand  made  fast 
The  long  line  that  brought  them  back  to  hope  and 
cheer ! 

Haggard,  gasping,  down  dropped  he 
At  the  feet  of  Harry  Lee, — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine. 
"  I  have  come,"  he  gasped,  "  to  claim 
Both  rewards.     Senor,  my  name 

Is  Ramon  ! 

I'm  the  drunken  engineer, 
I'm  the  coward,  Senor — "     Here 
He  fell  over,  by  that  sign, 

Dead  as  stone ! 


£)on  Diego  of  tfje 

(REFECTORY,  MISSION  SAN  GABRIEL,  1869.) 

s 

GOOD  ! — said  the  Padre, — believe  me  still, 
"  Don  Giovanni,"  or  what  you  will, 
The  type's  eternal !     We  knew  him  here 
As  Don  Diego  del  Sud.     I  fear 
The  story's  no  new  one  !     Will  you  hear  ? 

One  of  those  spirits  you  can't  tell  why 

God  has  permitted.     Therein  I 

Have  the  advantage,  for  /  hold 

That  wolves  are  sent  to  the  purest  fold, 

And  we'd  save  the  wolf  if  we'd  get  the  lamb. 

You're  no  believer  ?     Good  !     I  am. 

Well,  for  some  purpose,  I  grant  you  dim, 
The  Don  loved  women,  and  they  loved  him. 
Each  thought  herself  his  last  love  !     Worst, 
Many  believed  that  they  were  \usfirst! 
And,  such  are  these  creatures  since  the  Fall, 
The  very  doubt  had  a  charm  for  all ! 

You  laugh  !     You  are  young,  but  /—indeed 
I  have  no  patience  ...  To  proceed — 
You  saw,  as  you  passed  through  the  upper  town, 
The  Eucinal  where  the  road  goes  down 


92  Don  Diego  of  the  South. 

To  San  Felipe  !     There  one  morn 

They  found  Diego, — his  mouth  torn, 

And  as  many  holes  through  his  doublet's  band 

As  there  were  wronged  husbands — you  understand  ! 


"  Dying,"  so  said  the  gossips.     "  Dead  " 
Was  what  the  friars  who  found  him  said. 
May  be.      Quien  sabe?     Who  else  should  know- 
It  was  a  hundred  years  ago. 
There  was  a  funeral.     Small  indeed — 
Private.     What  would  you  ?    To  proceed  : — 

Scarcely  the  year  had  flown.     One  night 
The  Commandante  awoke  in  fright, 
Hearing  below  his  casement's  bar 
The  well-known  twang  of  the  Don's  guitar ; 
And  rushed  to  the  window,  just  to  see 
His  wife  a-swoon  on  the  balcony. 

One  week  later,  Don  Juan  Ramirez 
Found  his  own  daughter,  the  Dona  Inez, 
Pale  as  a  ghost,  leaning  out  to  hear 
The  song  of  that  phantom  cavalier. 
Even  Alcalde  Pedro  Bias 
Saw,  it  was  said,  through  his  niece's  glass, 
The  shade  of  Diego  twice  repass. 

What  these  gentlemen  each  confessed 
Heaven  and  the  Church  only  knows.     At  best 
The  case  was  a  bad  one.     How  to  deal 
With  Sin  as  a  Ghost,  they  couldn't  but  feel 
Was  an  awful  thing.     Till  a  certain  Fray 
Humbly  offered  to  show  the  way. 


Don  Diego  of  the  South.  93 

And  the  way  was  this.     Did  I  say  before 
That  the  Fray  was  a  stranger  ?     No,  Senor  ? 
Strange  !  very  strange  !     I  should  have  said 
That  the  very  week  that  the  Don  lay  dead 
He  came  among  us.     Bread  he  broke 
Silent,  nor  ever  to  one  he  spoke. 
So  he  had  vowed  it !     Below  his  brows 
His  face  was  hidden.     There  are  such  vows ! 


Strange  1  are  they  not  ?     You  do  not  use 
Snuff?     A  bad  habit ! 


Well,  the  views 

Of  the  Fray  was  this  :  That  the  penance  done 
By  the  caballeros  was  right ;  but  one 
Was  due  from  the  cause,  and  that,  in  brief, 
Was  Donna  Dolores  Gomez,  chief, 
And  Inez,  Sanchicha,  Concepcion, 
And  Carmen — Well,  half  the  girls  in  town 
On  his  tablets  the  Friar  had  written  down. 


These  were  to  come  on  a  certain  day 
And  ask  at  the  hands  of  the  pious  Fray 
For  absolution.     That  done,  small  fear 
But  the  shade  of  Diego  would  disappear. 


They  came ;  each  knelt  in  her  turn  and  place 
To  the  pious  Fray  with  his  hidden  face 
And  voiceless  lips,  and  each  again 
Took  back  her  soul  freed  from  spot  or  stain, 
Till  the  Dona  Inez,  with  eyes  downcast 
And  a  tear  on  their  fringes,  knelt  her  last 


94  Don  Diego  of  the  South. 

And  then — perhaps  that  her  voice  was  low 
From  fear  or  from  shame — the  monks  said  so — 
But  the  Fray  leaned  forward,  when,  presto  !  all 
Were  thrilled  by  a  scream,  and  saw  her  fall 
Fainting  beside  the  confessional 

And  so  was  the  ghost  of  Diego  laid 
As  the  Fray  had  said.     Never  more  his  shade 
Was  seen  at  San  Gabriel's  Mission.     Ah  ! 
The  girl  interests  you  ?     I  dare  say  ! 
"Nothing,"  said  she,  when  they  brought  her  to— 
"  Only  a  faintness  ! "     They  spoke  more  true 
Who  said  'twas  a  stubborn  soul.     But  then — 
Women  are  women  and  men  are  men ! 

So,  to  return.     As  I  said  before, 

Having  got  the  wolf,  by  the  same  high  law 

We  saved  the  lamb  in  the  wolfs  own  jaw, 

And  that's  my  moral.     The  tale,  I  fear, 

But  poorly  told.     Yet  it  strikes  me  here 

Is  stuff  for  a  moral.     What's  your  view  ? 

You  smile,  Don  Pancho,— Ah !  that's  like  you  ! 


(     95     ) 


tfje 


KNOW  I  not  whom  thou  mayst  be 
Carved  upon  this  olive  tree  — 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre," 
For  around  on  broken  walls 
Summer  sun  and  Spring  rain  falls, 
And  in  vain  the  low  wind  calls 
"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 

Of  that  song  no  words  remain 

But  the  musical  refrain  : 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 
Yet  at  night,  when  winds  are  still, 
Tinkles  on  the  distant  hill 
A  guitar,  and  words  that  thrill 

Tell  to  me  the  old,  old  story  — 
Old  when  first  thy  charms  were  sung, 
Old  when  these  old  walls  were  young, 
"Manuela  of  La  Torre." 


jfriar  jpefcro'tf  EUDe, 


IT  was  the  morning  season  of  the  year  ; 

It  was  the  morning  era  of  the  land  ; 
The  watercourses  rang  full  loud  and  clear  ; 

Portala's  cross  stood  where  Portala's  hand 
Had  planted  it  when  Faith  was  taught  by  Fear, 

When  monks  and  missions  held  the  sole  command 
Of  all  that  shore  beside  the  peaceful  sea, 
Where  spring-tides  beat  their  long-drawn  reveille. 

Out  of  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey, 

All  in  that  brisk,  tumultuous  spring  weather, 

Rode  Friar  Pedro,  in  a  pious  way, 

With  six  dragoons  in  cuirasses  of  leather, 

Each  armed  alike  for  either  prayer  or  fray, 

Handcuffs  and  missals  they  had  slung  together; 

And  as  in  aid  the  gospel  truth  to  scatter 

Each  swung  a  lasso  —  alias  a  "riata." 

In  sooth,  that  year  the  harvest  had  been  slack, 
The  crop  of  converts  scarce  worth  computation  • 

Some  souls  were  lost,  whose  owners  had  turned  back 
To  save  their  bodies  frequent  flagellation  ; 

And  some  preferred  the  songs  of  birds,  alack  ! 
To  Latin  matins  and  their  soul's  salvation, 

And  thought  their  own  wild  whoopings  were  less  dreary 

Than  Father  Pedro's  droning  miserere. 


Friar  Pedro's  Ride.  97 

To  bring  them  back  to  matins  and  to  prime, 
To  pious  works  and  secular  submission, 

To  prove  to  them  that  liberty  was  crime, — 
This  was,  in  fact,  the  Padre's  present  mission  j 

To  get  new  souls  perchance  at  the  same  time, 
And  bring  them  to  a  "  sense   their  condition  " — 

That  easy  phrase,  which,  in  the  past  and  present, 

Means  making  that  condition  most  unpleasant. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  "hill ; 
He  saw  the  gopher  working  in  his  burrow ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will ; — 
He  saw  all  this  and  felt  no  doubt  a  thorough 

And  deep  conviction  of  God's  goodness ;  still 
He  failed  to  see  that  in  His  glory  He 
Yet  left  the  humblest  of  His  creatures  free. 

He  saw  the  flapping  crow,  whose  frequent  note 
Voiced  the  monotony  of  land  and  sky, 

Mocking  with  graceless  wing  and  rusty  coat 
His  priestly  presence  as  he  trotted  by. 

He  would  have  cursed  the  bird  by  bell  and  rote, 
But  other  game  just  then  was  in  his  eye — 

A  savage  camp,  whose  occupants  preferred 

Their  heathen  darkness  to  the  living  Word. 

He  rang  his  bell,  and  at  the  martial  sound 

Twelve  silver  spurs  their  jingling  rowels  clashed; 

Six  horses  sprang  across  the  level  ground 
As  six  dragoons  in  open  order  dashed ; 

Above  their  heads  the  lassos  circled  round, 

In  every  eye  a  pious  fervour  flashed ; 
VOL.  i.  G 


98  Friar  Pedro  s  Ride. 

They  charged  the  camp,  and  in  one  moment  more 
They  lassoed  six  and  reconverted  four. 

The  Friar  saw  the  conflict  from  a  knoll, 

And  sang  Laus  Deo  and  cheered  on  his  men  : 

"  Well  thrown,  Bautista — that's  another  soul ; 
After  him,  Gomez — try  it  once  again ; 

This  way,  Felipe — there  the  heathen  stole ; 
Bones  of  St.  Francis  ! — surely  that  makes  ten  ; 

Te  deum  laudamus — but  they're  very  wild ; 

Non  nobis  dominus — all  right,  my  child  ! " 

When  at  that  moment — as  the  story  goes — 
A  certain  squaw,  who  had  her  foes  eluded, 

Ran  past  the  Friar — just  before  his  nose. 

He  stared  a  moment,  and  in  silence  brooded, 

Then  in  his  breast  a  pious  frenzy  rose 

And  every  other  prudent  thought  excluded ; 

He  caught  a  lasso,  and  dashed  in  a  canter 

After  that  Occidental  Atalanta. 

High  o'er  his  head  he  swirled  the  dreadful  noose, 
But,  as  the  practice  was  quite  unfamiliar, 

His  first  cast  tore  Felipe's  captive  loose 
And  almost  choked  Tiburcio  Camilla, 

And  might  have  interfered  with  that  brave  youth's 
Ability  to  gorge  the  tough  tortilla ; 

But  all  thirvgs  come  by  practice,  and  at  last 

His  flying  slip-knot  caught  the  maiden  fast. 

Then  rose  above  the  plain  a  mingled  yell 
Of  rage  and  triumph — a  demoniac  whoop ; 

The  Padre  heard  it  like  a  passing  knell, 

And  would  have  loosened  his  unchristian  loop ; 


Friar  Pedrds  Ride.  99 

But  the  tough  raw-hide  held  the  captive  well, 
And  held,  alas  !  too  well  the  captor-dupe  3 
For  with  one  bound  the  savage  fled  amain, 
Dragging  horse,  Friar,  down  the  lonely  plain. 

Down  the  arroyo,  out  across  the  mead, 
By  heath  and  hollow,  sped  the  flying  maid, 

Dragging  behind  her  still  the  panting  steed 
And  helpless  Friar,  who  in  vain  essayed 

To  cut  the  lasso  or  to  check  his  speed. 
He  felt  himself  beyond  all  human  aid, 

And  trusted  to  the  saints — and,  for  that  matter, 

To  some  weak  spot  in  Felipe's  riata. 

Alas  !  the  lasso  had  been  duly  blessed, 

And,  like  baptism,  held  the  flying  wretch — 

A  doctrine  that  the  priest  had  oft  expressed — 
Which,  like  the  lasso,  might  be  made  to  stretch 

But  would  not  break ;  so  neither  could  divest 
Themselves  of  it,  but,  like  some  awful  fetch, 

The  holy  Friar  had  to  recognise 

The  image  of  his  fate  in  heathen  guise. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  hill ; 
He  saw  the  gopher  standing  in  his  burrow ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will ; — 
He  saw  all  this,  and  felt  no  doubt  how  thorough 

The  contrast  was  to  his  condition ;  still 
The  squaw  kept  onward  to  the  sea,  till  night 
And  the  cold  sea-fog  hid  them  both  from  sight. 

The  morning  came  above  the  serried  coast, 
Lighting  the  snow-peaks  with  its  beacon  fires, 


ioo  Friar  Pedro  s  Ride. 

Driving  before  it  all  the  fleet-winged  host 
Of  chattering  birds  above  the  Mission  spires, 

Filling  the  land  with  light  and  joy — but  most 
The  savage  woods  with  all  their  leafy  lyres ; 

In  pearly  tints  and  opal  flame  and  fire 

The  morning  came,  but  not  the  holy  Friar. 

Weeks  passed  away.     In  vain  the  Fathers  sought 
Some  trace  or  token  that  might  tell  his  story; 

Some  thought  him  dead,  or,  like  Elijah,  caught 
Up  to  the  heavens  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

In  this  surmise  some  miracles  were  wrought 
On  his  account,  and  souls  in  purgatory 

Were  thought  to  profit  from  his  intercession  ; 

In  brief,  his  absence  made  a  "deep  impression." 

A  twelvemonth  passed ;  the  welcome  Spring  once  more 
Made  green  the  hills  beside  the  white-faced  Mission, 

Spread  her  bright  dais  by  the  western  shore, 
And  sat  enthroned — a  most  resplendent  vision. 

The  heathen  converts  thronged  the  chapel  door 
At  morning  mass,  when,  says  the  old  tradition, 

A  frightful  whoop  throughout  the  church  resounded, 

And  to  their  feet  the  congregation  bounded. 

A  tramp  of  hoofs  upon  the  beaten  course, 

Then  came  a  sight  that  made  the  bravest  quail : 

A  phantom  Friar  on  a  spectre  horse, 

Dragged  by  a  creature  decked  with  horns  and  tail. 

By  the  lone  Mission,  with  the  whirlwind's  force, 
They  madly  swept,  and  left  a  sulphurous  trail — 

And  that  was  all— enough  to  tell  the  story 

And  leave  unblessed  those  souls  in  purgatory. 


Friar  Pedro  s  Ride.  101 

And  ever  after,  on  that  fatal  day 

That  Friar  Pedro  rode  abroad  lassoing, 

A  ghostly  couple  came  and  went  away 

With  savage  whoop  and  heathenish  hallooing, 

Which  brought  discredit  on  San  Luis  Rey, 
And  proved  the  Mission's  ruin  and  undoing ; 

For  ere  ten  years  had  passed,  the  squaw  and  Friar 

Performed  to  empty  walls  and  fallen  spire. 

The  Mission  is  no  more ;  upon  its  walls 
The  golden  lizards  slip,  or  breathless  pause 

Still  as  the  sunshine  brokenly  that  falls 

Through  crannied  roof  and  spider-webs  of  gauze  \ 

No  more  the  bell  its  solemn  warning  calls— 
A  holier  silence  thrills  and  overawes ; 

And  the  sharp  lights  and  shadows  of  to-day 

Outline  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey. 


(      102      ) 


3[n  tfje 

(1865.) 

FATHER   FELIPE. 

I  SPEAK  not  the  English  well,  but  Pachita 
She  speak  for  me ;  is  it  not  so,  my  Pancha  ? 
Eh,  little  rogue  ?     Come,  salute  me  the  stranger 

Americano. 

Sir,  in  my  country  we  say,  "  Where  the  heart  is, 
There  live  the  speech."    Ah !  you  not  understand?     So! 
Pardon  an  old  man, — what  you  call  "  ol  fogy," — 

Padre  Felipe ! 

Old,  Senor,  old !  just  so  old  as  the  Mission. 

You  see  that  pear-tree  ?     How  old  you  think,  Senor  ? 

Fifteen  year?     Twenty?     Ah,  Senor,  just  fifty 

Gone  since  I  plant  him ! 

You  like  the  wine?     It  is  some  at  the  Mission, 
Made  from  the  grape  of  the  year  Eighteen  Hundred ; 
All  the  same  time  when  the  earthquake  he  come  to 

San  Juan  Bautista. 

But  Pancha  is  twelve,  and  she  is  the  rose-tree ; 
And  I  am  the  olive,  and  this  is  the  garden : 
And  Pancha  we  say ;  but  her  name  is  Francisca, 

Same  like  her  mother. 


In  the  Mission  Garden.  103 

Eh,  you  knew  her  ?     No  ?     Ah  !  it  is  a  story ; 
But  I  speak  not,  like  Pachita,  the  English : 
So !  if  I  try,  you  will  sit  here  beside  me, 

And  shall  not  laugh,  eh  ? 

When  the  American  come  to  the  Mission, 
Many  arrive  at  the  house  of  Francisca : 
One, — he  was  fine  man, — he  buy  the  cattle 

Of  Jose'  Castro. 

So  !  he  came  much,  and  Francisca  she  saw  him  : 
And  it  was  love, — and  a  very  dry  season ; 
And  the  pears  bake  on  the  tree, — and  the  rain  come, 

But  not  Francisca. 

Not  for  one  year ;  and  one  night  I  have  walk  much 
Under  the  olive-tree,  when  comes  Francisca, — 
Comes  to  me  here,  with  her  child,  this  Francisca, — 

Under  the  olive-tree. 

Sir,  it  was  sad ;  .  .  .  but  I  speak  not  the  English ; 
So  !  .  .  .  she  stay  here,  and  she  wait  for  her  husband  : 
He  come  no  more,  and  she  sleep  on  the  hillside ; 

There  stands  Pachita. 

Ah  !  there's  the  Angelus.     Will  you  not  enter  ? 
Or  shall  you  walk  in  the  garden  with  Pancha  ? 
Go,  little  rogue — sit — attend  to  the  stranger. 

Adios,  Senor. 

PACHITA  (briskly). 

So,  he's  been  telling  that  yarn  about  mother ! 
Bless  you  !  he  tells  it  to  every  stranger : 
Folks  about  yer  say  the  old  man's  my  father; 

What's  your  opinion? 


104 


Cfje  lost  d5alleon, 

In  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 
The  regular  yearly  galleon, 
Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice^ 
India  cottons  and  India  rice, 
And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay, 
Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 
Due  she  was,  and  over- due, — 
Galleon,  merchandise,  and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  line. 
The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town, 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  Viceroy  himself  came  down ; 
The  bells  in  the  tower  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  Deums  were  on  each  Father's  lip, 
The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 

All  in  vain.     Weeks  passed  away, 
And  yet  no  galleon  saw  the  bay : 
India  goods  advanced  in  price  ; 
The  Governor  missed  his  favourite  spice ; 
The  Senoritas  mourned  for  sandal 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromandel ; 


The  Lost  Galleon.  105 

And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband, — Donna  Julia, 
Wife  of  the  captain  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar  : 
Even  the  Fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers ; 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year 
Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye 
That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry; 
Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 
That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again  ; 
And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 
Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 
More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 
In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one, — 
Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done, — 
And  folks  had  forgotten  the  galleon : 
The  divers  plunged  in  the  gulf  for  pearls, 
White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls  ; 
The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars ; 
The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 
And  oxen,  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 
Came  and  went  on  the  mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while  ? 
Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle, 
Burnt  by  the  roving  sea-marauders, 
Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders  ? 
Had  she  found  the  Anian  passage  famed, 
By  lying  Moldonado  claimed, 
And  sailed  through  the  sixty-fifth  degree 
Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  Sea? 


io6  The  Lost  Galleon. 

Or  had  she  found  the  "  River  of  Kings," 
Of  which  De  Fonte  told  such  strange  things  ? 

In  sixteen  forty  !     Never  a  sign, 

East  or  west  or  under  the  line, 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon  ; 

Never  a  sail  or  plank  or  chip 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure-ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how, 

Are  the  facts  we're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day, 
Published  at  Madrid, — -por  el  Rey  ; 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 
Longitude  west  of  Madrid  :  there, 
Under  the  equatorial  glare, 
Just  where  the  east  and  west  are  one, 
You'll  find  the  missing  galleon, — 
You'll  find  the  "  San  Gregorio,"  yet 
Riding  the  seas,  with  sails  all  set, 
Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 
She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?     What  strange  spell 

Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 

Free  from  decay  and  mortal  taint  ? 

What  but  the  prayers  of  a  patron  saint ! 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manilla  town, 

The  "  San  Gregorio's  "  helm  came  down ; 

Round  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 

A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 

That  rocked  on  the  waters  just  abreast 

Of  the  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-sou-west 


The  Lost  Galleon.  107 

Then  said  the  galleon's  commandante, 

General  Pedro  Sobriente 

(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 

A  regular  custom  of  Old  Spain), 

"  My  pilot  is  dead  of  scurvy  :  may 

I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ?  " 

The  first  two  given  and  compared ; 

The  third, — the  commandante  stared  !     . 

"  The  first  of  June  ?     I  make  it  second." 

Said  the  stranger,  "  Then  you've  wrongly-reckoned ; 

I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 

You  should  have  lost,  d'ye  see,  a  day; 

Lost  a  day,  as  plainly  see, 

On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 

"  Lost  a  day  ?  "     "  Yes ;  if  not  rude, 

When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?  " 

"  On  the  ninth  of  May, — our  patron's  day." 

"  On  the  ninth  ? — you  had  no  ninth  of  May  I 

Eighth  and  tenth  was  there  ;  but  stay  " — 

Too  late  \  for  the  galleon  bore  away. 


Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept, 
Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept ; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  a  trackless  and  boundless  main ; 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse ; 
Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day, — 
What  would  the  holy  Fathers  say  ? 


Said  the  Fray  Antonio  Estavan, 

The  galleon's  chaplain, — a  learned  man, — 


io8  The  Lost  Galleon. 

"  Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain  ; 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing  is  plain, 
To  go  where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 
Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 
Wait  till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  the  missing  day  be  found ; 
For  you'll  find — if  computation's  true — 
That  sailing  east  will  give  to  you 
Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two, — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year." 


Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon ; 

Where,  for  a  twelvemonth,  off  and  on 

The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 

She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea. 

But  lo  !  when  it  came  to  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot ; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 


To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 
She  never  saved  it.     Made  the  sport 
Of  evil  spirits  and  baffling  wind, 
She  was  always  before  or  just  behind, 
One  day  too  soon,  or  one  day  too  late, 
And  the  sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait. 
She  had  two  eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 
Two  tenths,  but  never  a  ninth  of  May ; 


The  Lost  Galleon.  109 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 
Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears ; 
Yet,  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served, 
Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation  that  still  holds  good, 

Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 

The  "  San  Gregorio  "  will  cross  that  line 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty-nine  : 

Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 

From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 

And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 

Over  the  waters  looking  down, 

Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 

The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 

And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Rey, 

The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 

As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 

A  Te  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 

An  odour  of  spice  along  the  shore, 

A  crash,  a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck, — • 

And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more 

In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay ; 

For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 


Such  is  the  legend.  Hear  this  truth  : 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 

Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 
Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 

Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint : 

Each  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint ! 


IN  DIALECT. 


VOL.  L 


"Jim** 

SAY  there  !     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild  ? 
Well, — no  offence  : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar  : 
That's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir  !      You 
Ain't  of  that  crew, — 

Blest  if  you  are  ! 

Money? — Not  much  : 
That  ain't  my  kind  : 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ? — I  don't  mind, 

Seein'  it's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ?— 


U4  "Jim. 


Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 

Same  kind  of  eyes  ; — 

Well,  that  is  strange  : 
Why,  it's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here, 

Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here's  to  us : 

Eh? 
The  h you  say  i 

Dead? 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star, — 
You  over  thar  ? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar'  ? 
It  wouldn't  take 

D much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 

Poor — little — Jim  ! 
Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — 
No-account  men : 
Then  to  take  him  ! 

Well,  thar-^Good  by, — 
No  more,  sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's  that  you  say  ?— 


"Jim? 

Why,  dern  it ! — sho  I— 
No  ?    Yes  !    By  Joe  ! 

Sold! 

Sold  !     Why,  you  limb, 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim  1 


BEAUTIFUL  !     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar  isn't  her  match 

in  the  county. 

Is  thar,  old  gal, — Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir, — thar's  velvet !     Whoa  !  steady, — ah, 

will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa !  I  say.     Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman  look 

at  her  paces. 

Morgan  ! — she  ain't  nothing  else,  and  I've  got  the  papers  to 

prove  it. 
Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars  won't 

buy  her. 
Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.     Did  you  know  Briggs  of 

Tuolumne  ? — 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains  down 

in  'Frisco  ? 

Hedn't  no  savey — hed  Briggs.     Thar,  Jack  !  that'll  do, — 

quit  that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she's  got  her  work  cut  out 

before  her. 
Hosses  is  hosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys  is 

jockeys : 
And  'tain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  hoss  has 

got  in  him. 


Chiquita.  117 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flanigan's 

leaders  ? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in  low 

water ! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and  his 

nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the  water 

all  round  us ; 


Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek  just  a 

bilin', 

Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the  river. 
I  had  the  grey,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his  nevey, 

Chiquita ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top  of 

the  canon. 


Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and  afore  I  could  yell  to 

her  rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge  and 

me  standing, 
And  twelve  hundred   dollars   of  hoss-flesh   afloat,  and  a 

driftin'  to  thunder ! 


Would  ye  b'lieve  it?   that  night  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet  and 

dripping : 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as   she   swam  the   Fork,— that   hoss,   that    ar'  filly, 

Chiquita. 


1 1 8  Chiquita. 

That's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and — What  did  you  say? — Oh, 

the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,  I  reckon, — leastways,  he  never  kem  back  to 

deny  it. 
Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat, — ye  couldn't  have  made 

him  a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses — well, 

bosses  is  hosses ' 


'0  jttat, 

(1856.) 

Dow's  FLAT.     That's  its  name ; 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?    The  same  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true, — 

For  thar  isn't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the  place  at 
first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass, — 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass, — 

Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye  down  here 
in  the  grass. 

You  see  this  'yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 

Why,  ef  he'd  a  straddled  thet  fence-rail,  the  derned  thing 
'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  couldn't  pay  rates  ; 


i  2O  Dow's  Flat. 

He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates ; 

And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and  five 
kids  from  the  States. 


It  was  rough, — mighty  rough ; 
But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house,  on  the  sly  ; 

And  the  old  woman, — well,  she  did  washing,  and  took  on 
when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  'yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 

And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a  drop  to 
be  seen. 


Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  wouldn't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away ; 

But  Dow  in  his  well  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual  ridikilous 
way. 

One  day, — it  was  June, — 
And  a  year  ago,  jest — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 

With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  derringer  hid 
in  his  breast. 


Dow's  Flat.  121 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  : 

For  the  sun  in  his  eyes  (jest  like  this,  sir !),  you  see,  kinder 
made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 

And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 

Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay : 

Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leaving  but  his  all, — as  I've  heer'd 
the  folks  say. 

And — That's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you've  got, — ain't  it  now? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh?  Oh!— Well,  then,  Dow- 
Let's  see, — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't  his,  sir,  that 
day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 

For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck  —  "Water?"  —  Beg 
your  parding,  young  man, — there  you  lied ! 

It  was  gold, — in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 

And  that  house  with  the  coopilow's  his'n, — which  the  same 
isn't  bad  for  a  Pike. 


122  Dow's  Flat. 

That's  why  it's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness : 

For  'twas  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seeking  and  his  luck 
made  him  certain  to  miss 

Thet's  so  !     Thar's  your  way, 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree ; 
But — a — look  h'yur,  say  ? 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No?    Well,  then  the  next  time  you're  passing  and  ask  after 
Dow, — and  thet's  me. 


(     123    ) 


31n  tfje  Cunnel 

DIDN'T  know  Flynn,— • 
Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 
Long  as  he's  been  'yar  ? 
Look  'ee  here,  stranger, 
Whar  hev  you  been  ? 

Here  in  this  tunnel 
He  was  my  pardner, 

That  same  Tom  Flynn, — 
Working  together, 
In  wind  and  weather, 

Day  out  and  in. 

Didn't  know  Flynn  ! 
Well,  that  is  queer  ; 

Why,  it's  a  sin 

To  think  of  Tom  Flynn,— 
Tom  with  his  cheer, 
Tom  without  fear, — 
Stranger,  look  'yar ! 

Thar  in  the  drift, 

Back  to  the  wall, 
He  held  the  timbers 

Ready  to  fall ; 


124  In  the  Tunnel. 

Then  in  the  darkness 
I  heard  him  call : 

"  Run  for  your  life,  Jake  ! 

Run  for  your  wife's  sake  ! 

Don't  wait  for  me." 

And  that  was  all 
Heard  in  the  din, 
Heard  of  Tom  Flynn, — 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That's  all  about 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That  lets  me  out. 
Here  in  the  damp,— 

Out  of  the  sun, — 
That  'ar  derned  lamp 

Makes  my  eyes  run. 

Well,  there,— I'm  done  ! 

But,  sir,  when  you'll 

Hear  the  next  fool 
Asking  of  Flynn, — 

Flynn  of  Virginia, — 
Just  you  chip  in, 
Say  you  knew  Flynn  ; 

Say  that  you've  been  'yar. 


(       125       ) 


«'  Cicely" 

(ALKALI  STATION.) 

CICELY  says  you're  a  poet ;  maybe, — I  ain't  much  on  rhyme: 
I  reckon  you'd  give  me  a  hundred,  and  beat  me  every  time. 
Poetry ! — that's  the  way  some  chaps  puts  up  an  idee, 
But  I  takes  mine  "  straight  without  sugar,"  and  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  me. 

Poetry  ! — just  look  round  you, — alkali,  rock,  and  sage ; 
Sage-brush,  rock,  and  alkali ;  ain't  it  a  pretty  page  ! 
Sun  in  the  east  at  mornin',  sun  in  the  west  at  night, 
And  the  shadow  of  this  yer  station  the  on'y  thing  moves  in 
sight. 

Poetry  ! — Well  now — Polly  !  Polly,  run  to  your  mam ; 
Run  right  away,  my  pooty  !     By-by  !     Ain't  she  a  lamb  ? 
Poetry  ! — that  reminds  me  o'  suthin'  right  in  that  suit : 
Jest  shet  that  door  thar,  will  yer  ? — for  Cicely's  ears  is  cute. 

Ye  noticed  Polly, — the  baby  ?    A  month  afore  she  was  born, 
Cicely — my  old  woman — was  moody-like  and  forlorn  ; 
Out  of  her  head  and  crazy,  and  talked  of  flowers  and  trees ; 
Family  man  yourself,  sir  ?     Well,  you  know  what  a  woman 
be's. 


126  "  Cicely  r 

Narvous  she  was,  and  restless, — said  that  she  "couldn't 

stay." 

Stay  ! — and  the  nearest  woman  seventeen  miles  away. 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he  would  be 

on  hand, 
And  I  kinder  stuck  by  the  shanty,  and  fenced  in  that  bit  o' 

land. 

One  night, — the  tenth  of  October, — I  woke  with  a  chill  and 

a  fright, 
For  the  door  it  was  standing  open,  and  Cicely  warn't  in 

sight, 
But  a  note  was  pinned  on  the  blanket,  which  it  said  that  she 

"  couldn't  stay," 
But  had  gone  to  visit  her  neighbour, — seventeen  miles  away  ! 

When  and  how  she  stampeded,  I  didn't  wait  for  to  see, 
For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild  as  she ; 
Running  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound  that  is  off 

the  scent, 
For  there  warn't  no  track  in  the  darkness  to  tell  me  the  way 

she  went. 


I've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kem  to  this 

spot,— 

Lost  on  the  Plains  in  '50,  drownded  almost  and  shot ; 
But  out  on  this  alkali  desert,  a  hunting  a  crazy  wife, 
Was  ra'ly  as  on-satis-factory  as  anything  in  my  life. 

"Cicely  !  Cicely !  Cicely ! "  I  called,  and  I  held  my  breath, 
And  "  Cicely  ! "  came  from  the  canyon, — and  all  was  as  still 
as  death. 


"Cicely."  127 

And  "  Cicely  !  Cicely  !  Cicely  ! "  came  from  the  rocks  below, 
And  jest  but  a  whisper  of  "  Cicely  !  "  down  from  them  peaks 
of  snow. 


I  ain't  what  you  call  religious, — but  I  jest  looked  up  to  the 

sty, 
And — this  yer's  to  what  I'm  coming,  and  maybe  ye  think 

I  lie: 

But  up  away  to  the  eastward,  yaller  and  big  and  far, 
I  saw  of  a  suddent  rising  the  singlerist  kind  of  star. 


Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon  to  me  : 
Yaller  and  big  and  dancing,  such  as  you  never  see  : 
Big  and  yaller  and  dancing, — I  never  saw  such  a  star, 
And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I  went  for  it 
then  and  thar. 


Over  the  brush  and  bowlders  I  stumbled  and  pushed  ahead ; 

Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wharever  it  led. 

It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  suddent  and  peart  and 

nigh, 
Out  of  the  yearth  afore  me  thar  riz  up  a  baby's  cry. 


Listen !  thar's  the  same  music ;   but  her  lungs  they  are 

stronger  now 
Than  the  day  I  packed  her  and  her  mother, — I'm  derned  if 

I  jest  know  how. 
But  the  doctor  kem  the  next  minit,  and  the  joke  o'  the 

whole  thing  is 
That  Cis  never  knew  what  happened  from  that  very  night 

to  this  ! 


128  "Cicely? 

But  Cicely  says  you're  a  poet,  and  maybe  you  might,  some 

day, 
Jest  sling  her   a  rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born  in  a 

curious  way, 
And  see  what  she  says ;  and,  old  fellow,  when  you  speak  of 

the  star,  don't  tell 
As  how  'twas  the  doctor's  lantern, — -for  maybe  'twon't  sound 

so  well 


(SIMPSON'S  BAR,  1858.) 

So  you've  kem  'yer  agen, 

And  one  answer  won't  do? 
Well,  of  all  the  derned  men 
That  I've  struck,  it  is  you. 

O   Sal !  'yer's   that   derned  fool  from  Simpson's,  cavortin' 
round  'yer  in  the  dew. 

Kem  in,  ef  you  will. 

Thar, — quit  !     Take  a  cheer. 
Not  that ;  you  can't  fill 

Them  theer  cushings  this  year, — 

For  that  cheer  was  my  old  man's,  Joe  Simpson,  and  they 
don't  make  such  men  about  'yer. 

He  was  tall,  was  my  Jack, 
And  as  strong  as  a  tree. 
Thar's  his  gun  on  the  rack,^- 
Jest  you  heft  it,  and  see.    • 

And  you  come  a  courtin'  his  widder !     Lord  !  where  can 
that  critter,  Sal,  be  f 

VOL.  I.  I 


1 30  Penelope. 

You'd  fill  my  Jack's  place  ? 

And  a  man  of  your  size, — 
With  no  baird  to  his  face, 
Nor  a  snap  to  his  eyes, 

And  nary — Sho  !  thar !  I  was  foolin', — I  was,  Joe,  for  sar- 
tain, — don't  rise. 

Sit  down.     Law  !  why,  sho  ! 

I'm  as  weak  as  a  gal. 
Sal !     Don't  you  go,  Joe, 

Or  I'll  faint, — sure,  I  shall. 

Sit  down, — anywheer,  where  you  like,  Joe, — in  that  cheer,  if 
you  choose, — Lord !  where's  Sal  ? 


Language  from  Crutijfiri  3[ame& 

(TABLE  MOUNTAIN,  1870.) 

WHICH  I  wish  to  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny, 
In  regard  to  the  same, 

What  that  name  might  imply; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies ; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 


132     Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  Euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  j 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve, 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labour/' — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 
<  Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 

With  the  cards  that  Ah  sin  had  been  hiding, 
In  the  game  "he  did  not  understand." 


Plain  Langitage  from  Truthful  James.     133 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs, — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers, — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain 


(     134    ) 


©ocietg  upon  tfje  &tanfelau& 


I  RESIDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James  ; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games  ; 
And  I'll  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

%But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man, 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "  put  a  head  "  on  him. 


Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  Society, 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 


Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare ; 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension  of  the 

rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his 

lost  mules. 


The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus.         135 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at 

fault, 

It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family  vault ; 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 


Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass, — at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him,  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  raised  a  point  of  order,  when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on  the 

floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age ; 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was 

a  sin, 
Till  the   skull  of  an  old   mammoth   caved   the   head  of 

Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 

James  ; 
And  I've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  knew  about  the 

row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 


ILufce, 

(IN  THE   COLORADO   PARK,   1873.) 

WOT'S  that  you're  readin'? — a  novel?    A    novel! — well 

darn  my  skin  ! 
You  a  man  grown  and  bearded  and  histin'  such  stuff  ez 

that  in — 
Stuff  about  gals  and  their  sweethearts  !     No  wonder  you're 

thin  ez  a  knife. 
Look  at  me ! — clar  two  hundred — and  never  read  one  in 

my  life ! 

That's  my  opinion  o'  novels.     And  ez  to  their  lyin'  round 

here, 
They  belong  to  the  Jedge's  daughter — the  Jedge  who  came 

up  last  year 
On  account  of  his  lungs  and  the  mountains  and  the  balsam 

o'  pine  and  fir  ; 
And  his  daughter — well,  she  read  novels,  and  that's  what's 

the  matter  with  her. 

Yet  she  was  sweet  on  the  Jedge,  and  stuck  by  him  day  and 

night, 
Alone  in  the  cabin  up  'yer — till  she  grew  like  a  ghost,  all 

white. 
She  wus  only  a  slip  of  a  thing,  ez  light  and  ez  up  and 

away 
Ez  rifle  smoke  blown  through  the  woods,  but  she  wasn't 

my  kind — no  way  ! 


Luke.  137 

Speakin'  o'  gals,  d'ye  mind  that  house  ez  you  rise  the 

hill, 
A  mile  and  a  half  from  White's,  and  jist  above  Mattingly's 

mill? 
You  do  ?    Well  now  tha^s  a  gal !     What !  you  saw  her  ? 

Oh,  come  now,  thar  !  quit  ! 
She  was  only  bedevlin'  you  boys,  for  to  me  she  don't  cotton 

one  bit. 


Now  she's  what  I  call  a  gal — ez  pretty  and  plump  ez  a 
quail ; 

Teeth  ez  white  ez  a  hound's,  and  they'd  go  through  a  ten- 
penny  nail  • 

Eyes  that  kin  snap  like  a  cap.  So  she  asked  to  know 
"  whar  I  was  hid  ?  " 

She  did !  Oh,  it's  jist  like  her  sass,  for  she's  peart  ez  a 
Katydid. 


But  what  was  I  talking  of? — Oh  !  the  Jedge  and  his  daughter 

— she  read 
Novels  the  whole  day  long,  and  I  reckon  she  read  them 

abed; 
And  sometimes  she  read  them  out  loud  to  the  Jedge  on  the 

porch  where  he  sat, 
And  'twas  how  "  Lord  Augustus  "  said  this,  and  how  "  Lady 

Blanche  "  she  said  that 


But  the  sickest  of  all  that  I  heerd  was  a  yarn  thet  they 

read  'bout  a  chap, 
"Leather-stocking"  by  name,  and  a  hunter  chock  full  o'  the 

greenest  o'  sap ; 


138  Luke. 

And  they  asked  me  to  hear,  but  I  says,  "  Miss  Mabel,  not 

any  for  me ; 
When  I  likes  I  kin  sling  my  own  lies,  and  thet  chap  and  I 

shouldn't  agree." 


Yet  somehow  or  other  she  was  always  sayin'  I  brought  her 

to  mind 
Of  folks  about  whom  she  had  read,  or  suthin  belike  of 

thet  kind, 
And  thar  warn't  no  end  o'  the  names  that  she  give  me  thet 

summer  up  here — 
"Robin  Hood,"  "Leather-stocking/'  "Rob  Roy,"— Oh,  I 

tell  you,  the  critter  was  queer  ! 


And  yet,  ef  she  hadn't  been  spiled,  she  was  harmless  enough 

in  her  way ; 
She  could  jabber  in  French  to  her  dad,  and  they  said  that 

she  knew  how  to  play ; 
And  she  worked  me  that  shot-pouch  up  thar,  which  the 

man  doesn't  live  ez  kin  use ; 
And  slippers — you  see  'em  down  'yer — ez  would  cradle  an 

Injin's  papoose. 


Yet  along  o'  them  novels,  you  see,  she  was  wastin'  and 

mopin'  away, 
And  then  she  got  shy  with  her  tongue,  and  at  last  had 

nothin'  to  say ; 
And  whenever  I  happened  around,  her  face  it  was  hid  by  a 

book, 
And  it  warn't  until  she  left  that  she  give  me  ez  much  ez  a 

look. 


Luke.  139 

And  this  was  the  way  it  was.  It  was  night  when  I  kem  up 
here 

To  say  to  'em  all  "good-bye,"  for  I  reckoned  to  go  for 
deer 

At  "  sun  up  "  the  day  they  left.  So  I  shook  'em  all  round 
by  the  hand, 

;Cept  Mabel,  and  she  was  sick,  ez  they  give  me  to  under 
stand. 

But  jist  ez  I  passed  the  house  next  morning  at  dawn,  some 

one, 

Like  a  little  waver  o'  mist  got  up  on  the  hill  with  the  sun ; 
Miss   Mabel   it  was,  alone — all   wrapped  in  a  mantle  o' 

lace — 
And  she  stood  there  straight  in  the  road,  with  a  touch  o' 

the  sun  in  her  face. 

And  she  looked  me  right  in  the  eye — I'd  seen  suthin  like 

it  before 
When  I  hunted  a  wounded  doe  to  the  edge  o'  the  Clear 

Lake  Shore, 
And  I  had  my  knee  on  its  neck,  and  jist  was  raisin'  my 

knife, 
When  it  give  me  a  look  like  that,  and — well,  it  got  off  with 

its  life. 

"We  are  going  to-day,"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  I  would 

say  good-bye 
To  you  in  your  own  house,  Luke — these  woods  and  the 

bright  blue  sky ! 
You've  always  been  kind  to  us,  Luke,  and  papa  has  found 

you  still 
As  good  as  the  air  he  breathes,  and  wholesome  as  Laurel 

Tree  Hill. 


140  Luke. 

"And  we'll  always  think  of  you,  Luke,  as  the  thing  we 

could  not  take  away, — 
The  balsam  that  dwells  in  the  woods,  the  rainbow  that  lives 

in  the  spray. 
And  you'll  sometimes  think  of  me,  Luke,  as  you  know  you 

once  used  to  say, 
A  rifle  smoke  blown  through  the  woods,  a  moment,  but 

never  to  stay." 

And  then  we  shook  hands.     She  turned,  but  a-suddent  she 

tottered  and  fell, 
And  I  caught  her  sharp  by  the  waist,  and  held  her  a  minit. 

Well, 
It  was  only  a  minit,  you  know,  thet  ez  cold  and  ez  white 

she  lay 
Ez  a  snowflake  here  on  my  breast,  and  then — well,  she 

melted  away — 

And  was  gone  .  .  .  And  thar  are  her  books ;  but  I  says 

not  any  for  me  ; 
Good  enough  may  be  for  some,  but  them  and  I  mightn't 

agree. 
They  spiled  a  decent  gal  ez  might  hev  made  some  chap  a 

wife, 
And  look  at  me  ! — clar  two  hundred — and  never  read  one 

in  my  life  1 


« Cfce  OBafcea  in  tfje 

(BIG  PINE  FLAT,  1871.) 

"  SOMETHING  characteristic,"  eh  ? 

Humph !     I  reckon  you  mean  by  that 
Something  that  happened  in  our  way, 

Here  at  the  crossin'  of  Big  Pine  Flat. 
Times  aren't  now  as  they  used  to  be, 

When  gold  was  flush  and  the  boys  were  frisky, 
And  a  man  would  pull  out  his  battery 

For  anything — maybe  the  price  of  whisky. 

Nothing  of  that  sort,  eh  ?    That's  strange  ! 

Why,  I  thought  you  might  be  diverted 
Hearing  how  Jones  of  Red  Rock  Range 

Drawed  his  "  hint  to  the  unconverted," 
And  saying,  "  Whar  will  you  have  it  ?  "  shot 

Cherokee  Bob  at  trfe  last  debating  ! 
What  was  the  question  I  forgot, 

But  Jones  didn't  like  Bob's  way  of  stating. 

Nothing  of  that  kind,  eh  ?     You  mean 
Something  milder  ?     Let's  see  ! — O  Joe  ! 

Tell  to  the  stranger  that  little  scene 

Out  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Woods."     You  know, 


142  "The  Babes  in  the  Woods." 

61  Babes  "  was  the  name  that  we  gave  'em,  sir, 
Two  lean  lads  in  their  teens,  and  greener 

Than  even  the  belt  of  spruce  and  fir 

Where  they  built  their  nest,  and  each  day  grew 
leaner. 

No  one  knew  where  they  came  from.     None 

Cared  to  ask  if  they  had  a  mother. 
Runaway  scholboys,  maybe.     One 

Tall  and  dark  as  a  spruce ;  the  other 
Blue  and  gold  in  the  eyes  and  hair, 

Soft  and  low  in  his  speech,  but  rarely 
Talking  with  us  ;  and  we  didn't  care 

To  get  at  their  secret  at  all  unfairly. 

For  they  were  so  quiet,  so  sad  and  shy, 

Content  to  trust  each  other  solely, 
*      That  somehow  we'd  always  shut  one  eye, 

And  never  seem  to  observe  them  wholly 
As  they  passed  to  their  work.     ;Twas  a  worn-out 

claim, 
And  it  paid  them  grub.     They  could  live  with 

out  it, 

For  the  boys  had  a  way  of  leaving  game 
In  their  tent,  and  forgetting  all  about  it. 

Yet  no  one  asked  for  their  secret.     Dumb 

It  lay  in  their  big  eyes'  heavy  hollows. 
It  was  understood  that  no  one  should  come 

To  their  tent  unawares,  save  the  bees  and  swallows. 
So  they  lived  alone.     Until  one  warm  night 

I  was  sitting  here  at  the  tent-door, — so,  sir  1 
When  out  of  the  sunset's  rosy  light 

Up  rose  the  Sheriff  of  Mariposa. 


"The  Babes  in  the  Woods!'  143 

I  knew  at  once  there  was  something  wrong, 

For  his  hand  and  his  voice  shook  just  a  little, 
And  there  isn't  much  you  can  fetch  along 

To  make  the  sinews  of  Jack  Hill  brittle. 
"  Go  warn  the  Babes  ! "  he  whispered,  hoarse ; 

"  Tell  I'm  coming — to  get  and  scurry ; 
For  I've  got  a  story  that's  bad, — and  worse, 

I've  got  a  warrant :  G — d  d — n  it,  hurry  ! " 

Too  late  !  they  had  seen  him  cross  the  hill ; 

I  ran  to  their  tent  and  found  them  lying 
Dead  in  each  other's  arms,  and  still 

Clasping  the  drug  they  had  taken  flying. 
And  there  lay  their  secret  cold  and  bare, 

Their  life,  their  trial — the  old,  old  story  ! 
For  the  sweet  blue  eyes  and  the  golden  hair 

Was  a  woman's  shame  and  a  woman's  glory. 

"  Who  were  they  ?  "     Ask  no  more,  or  ask 

The  sun  that  visits  their  grave  so  lightly ; 
Ask  of  the  whispering  reeds,  or  task 

The  mourning  crickets  that  chirrup  nightly. 
All  of  their  life  but  its  love  forgot, 

Everything  tender  and  soft  and  mystic, 
These  are  our  Babes  in  the  Woods, — you've  got, 

Well — human  nature — that's  characteristic. 


(     144    ) 


Cfje  Latest  Cfjinege  Outrage* 

IT  was  noon  by  the  sun ;  we  had  finished  our  game, 
And  was  passin'  remarks  goin'  back  to  our  claim ; 
Jones  was  countin'  his  chips,  Smith  relievin'  his  mind 
Of  ideas  that  a  "  straight "  should  beat  "  three  of  a  kind," 
When  Johnson  of  Elko  came  gallopin'  down, 
With  a  look  on  his  face  'twixt  a  grin  and  a  frown, 
And  he  calls,  "  Drop  your  shovels  and  face  right  about, 
For  them  Chinees  from  Murphy's  are  cleanin'  us  out — 

With  their  ching-a-ring-chow 

And  their  chic-colorow 

They're  bent  upon  making 

No  slouch  of  a  row." 

Then  Jones — my  own  pardner — looks  up  with  a  sigh 
"  It's  your  wash-bill,"  sez  he,  and  I  answers,  "  You  lie  !  " 
But  afore  he  could  draw  or  the  others  could  arm, 
Up  tumbles  the  Bates'  boys,  who  heard  the  alarm. 
And  a  yell  from  the  hill-top  and  roar  of  a  gong, 
Mixed  up  with  remarks  like  "  Hi !  yi !  Chang-a-wong," 
And  bombs,  shells,  and  crackers,  that  crashed  through 

the  trees, 
Revealed  in  their  war-togs  four  hundred  Chinees ! 

Four  hundred  Chinee ; 

We  are  eight,  don't  ye  see  ! 

That  made  a  square  fifty 

To  just  one  o'  we. 


The  Latest  Chinese  Outrage.  145 

They  were  dressed  in  their  best,  but  I  grieve  that  that 

same 

Was  largely  made  up  of  our  own,  to  their  shame ; 
And  my  pardner's  best  shirt  and  his  trousers  were  hung 
On  a  spear,  and  above  him  were  tauntingly  swung ; 
While  that  beggar,  Chey  Lee,  like  a  conjuror  sat 
Pullin'  out  eggs  and  chickens  from  Johnson's  best  hat; 
And  Bates'  game  rooster  was  part  of  their  "  loot/' 
And  all  of  Smith's  pigs  were  skyugled  to  boot ; 
But  the  climax  was  reached  and  I  like  to  have  died 
When  my  demijohn,  empty,  came  down  the  hillside,— 

Down  the  hillside — 

What  once  held  the  pride 

Of  Robertson  County 

Pitched  down  the  hillside ! 


Then  we  axed  for  a  parley.     When  out  of  the  din  . 
To  the  front  comes  a-rockin'  that  heathen,  Ah  Sin ! 
"  You  owe  flowty  dollee — me  washee  you  camp, 
You  catchee  my  washee — me  catchee  no  stamp ; 
One  dollar  hap  dozen,  me  no  catchee  yet, 
Now  that  flowty  dollee — no  hab  ? — how  can  get  ? 
Me  catchee  you  piggee — me  sellee  for  cash, 
It  catchee  me  licee — you  catchee  no  *  hash  ; ' 
Me  belly  good  Sheliff — me  lebbee  when  can, 
Me  allee  same  halp  pin  as  Melican  man  ! 

But  Melican  man 

He  washee  him  pan 

On  bottom  side  hillee 

And  catchee — how  can  ?  " 


14 Are  we  men  ? "  says  Joe  Johnson,  "and  list  to  this  jaw, 
Without  process  of  warrant  or  colour  of  law? 
VOL.  i.  K 


The  Latest  Chinese  Outrage. 

Are  we  men  or — a-chew  ?  " — here  he  gasped  in  his  speech, 

For  a  stink-pot  had  fallen  just  out  of  his  reach. 

"  Shall  we  stand  here  as  idle,  and  let  Asia  pour 

Her  barbaric  hordes  on  this  civilised  shore  ? 

Has   the  White  Man  no  country?    Are  we  left  in  the 

lurch  ? 

And  likewise  what's  gone  of  the  Established  Church  ? 
One  man  to  four  hundred  is  great  odds,  I  own, 
But  this  'yer's  a  White  Man — I  plays  it  alone  ! " 
And  he  sprang  up  the  hillside — to  stop  him  none  dare — 
Till  a  yell  from  the  top  told  a  "White  Man  was  there  !" 

A  White  Man  was  there  ! 

We  prayed  he  might  spare 

Those  misguided  heathens 

The  few  clothes  they  wear. 

They  fled,  and  he  followed,  but  no  matter  where ; 
They  fled  to  escape  him, — the  "  White  Man  was  there," — 
Till  we  missed  first  his  voice  on  the  pine-wooded  slope, 
And  we  knew  for  the  heathen  henceforth  was  no  hope ; 
And  the  yells  they  grew  fainter,  when  Petersen  said, 
"  It  simply  was  human  to  bury  his  dead." 

And  then,  with  slow  tread, 

We  crept  up,  in  dread, 

But  found  nary  mortal  there, 

Living  or  dead. 

But  there  was  his  trail,  and  the  way  that  they  came, 

And  yonder,  no  doubt,  he  was  bagging  his  game. 

When   Jones  drops   his   pickaxe,    and   Thompson   says 

"Shoo!" 

And  both  of  'em  points  to  a  cage  of  bamboo 
Hanging  down  from  a  tree,  with  a  label  that  swung 


The  Latest  Chinese  Outrage.  147 

Conspicuous,  with  letters  in  some  foreign  tongue, 
Which,  when  freely  translated,  the  same  did  appear 
Was  the  Chinese  for  saying,  "  A  White  Man  is  here  ! " 

And  as  we  drew  near, 

In  anger  and  fear, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  Johnson 

Looked  down  with  a  leer  ! 

In  his  mouth  was  an  opium  pipe — which  was  why 

He  leered  at  us  so  with  a  drunken-like  eye ! 

They  had  shaved  off  his  eyebrows,  and  tacked  on  a  cue, 

They  had  painted  his  face  of  a  coppery  hue, 

And  rigged  him  all  up  in  a  heathenish  suit, 

Then  softly  departed,  each  man  with  his  "  loot" 

Yes,  every  galoot, 

And  Ah  Sin,  to  boot, 

Had  left  him  there  hanging 

Like  ripening  fruit. 

At  a  mass  meeting  held  up  at  Murphy's  next  day 
There  were  seventeen  speakers  and  each  had  his  say ; 
There  were  twelve  resolutions  that  instantly  passed, 
And  each  resolution  was  worse  than  the  last ; 
There  were  fourteen  petitions,  which,  granting  the  same, 
Will  determine  what  Governor  Murphy's  shall  name ; 
And  the  man  from  our  District  that  goes  up  next  year 
Goes  up  on  one  issue — that's  patent  and  clear  : 

"  Can  the  work  of  a  mean, 

Degraded,  unclean 

Believer  in  Buddha 

Be  held  as  a  lien  ?  " 


Crutijful  3|ame#  to  tfie 

(YREKA,  1873.) 


WHICH  it  is  not  my  style 

To  produce  needless  pain 
By  statements  that  rile 

Or  that  go  'gin  the  grain, 

But  here's  Captain  Jack  still  a-livin',  and  Nye  has  no  skelp 
on  his  brain  ! 

On  that  Caucasian  head 

There  is  no  crown  of  hair  ; 
It  has  gone,  it  has  fled  ! 

And  Echo  sez  "  Where  ?  " 

And  I  asks,  "  Is  this  Nation  a  White  Man's,  and  is  generally 
things  on  the  square  ?  " 

She  was  known  in  the  camp 
As  "  Nye's  other  squaw," 
And  folks  of  that  stamp 

Hez  no  rights  in  the  law, 

But  is  treacherous,  sinful,  and  slimly,  as  Nye  might  hev  well 
known  before. 

But  she  said  that  she  knew 
Where  the  Injins  was  hid, 


Truthful  James  to  the  Editor.          149 

And  the  statement  was  true 

For  it  seemed  that  she  did, 

Since  she  led  William  where  he  was  covered  by  seventeen 
Modocs,  and — slid  ! 


Then  they  reached  for  his  hair ; 

But  Nye  sez,  "  By  the  law 
Of  nations,  forbear  ! 

I  surrenders — no  more 

And  I  looks  to  be  treated, — you  hear  me  ? — as  a  pris'ner,  a 
prisoner  of  war  ! " 

But  Captain  Jack  rose 

And  he  sez,  "  It's  too  thin ! 
Such  statements  as  those 

It's  too  late  to  begin. 

There's  a  Modoc 'indictment  agin  you,  O  Paleface,  and  you're 
goin'  in  I 

•*  You  stole  Schonchin's  squaw 

In  the  year  sixty-two ; 
It  was  in  sixty-four 

That  Long  Jack  you  went  through, 

And  you  burned  Nasty  Jim's  rancheria,  and  his  wives  and 
his  papooses  too. 

"  This  gun  in  my  hand 
Was  sold  me  by  you 
'Gainst  the  law  of  the  land, 
And  I  grieves  it  is  true  ! " 

And  he  buried  his  face  in  his  blanket  and  wept  as  he  hid  it 
from  view. 


1 50         Truthful  James  to  the  Editor. 

"  But  you're  tried  and  condemned, 

And  skelping's  your  doom," 
And  he  paused  and  he  hemmed — 

But  why  this  resume  ? 

He  was  skelped  'gainst  the  custom  of  nations,  and  cut  off 
like  a  rose  in  its  bloom. 

So  I  asks  without  guile, 

And  I  trusts  not  in  vain, 
If  this  is  the  style 

That  is  going  to  obtain — 

If  here's  Captain  Jack  still  a-livin',  and  Nye  with  no  skelp 
.  on  his  brain  ? 


of  tfje 


SIERRAS,  1876. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

First  Tourist.  I         "Yuba  Bill?  Driver. 

Second  Tourist.  A  Stranger. 

First  Tourist. 

LOOK  how  the  upland  plunges  into  cover, 

Green  where  the  pines  fade  sullenly  away. 
Wonderful  those  olive  depths  !    and   wonderful,   more 
over  - 

Second  Tourist. 
The  red  dust  that  rises  in  a  suffocating  way. 

First  Tourist. 

Small  is  the  soul  that  cannot  soar  above  it, 

Cannot  but  cling  to  its  ever-kindred  clay  : 
Better  be  yon  bird,   that   seems   to  breathe  and  love 
it  - 

Second  Tourist. 

Doubtless  a  hawk  or  some  other  bird  of  prey. 
Were  we,  like  him,  as  sure  of  a  dinner 

That  on  our  stomachs  would  comfortably  stay  ; 


152  An  Idyl  of  the  Road. 

Or  were  the  fried  ham  a  shade  or  two  just  thinner, 
That  must  confront  us  at  closing  of  the  day : 

Then  might  you  sing  like  Theocritus  or  Virgil, 
Then  might  we  each  make  a  metrical  essay  ; 

But  verse  just  now — I  must  protest  and  urge — ill 
Fits  a  digestion  by  travel  led  astray 


Chorus  of  Passengers. 

Speed,  Yuba  Bill !  oh,  speed  us  to  our  dinner ! 
Speed  to  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away. 


Second  Tourist. 

William  of  Yuba,  O  Son  of  Nimshi,  hearken  ! 

Check  thy  profanity,  but  not  thy  chariot's  play. 
Tell  us,  O  William,  before  the  shadows  darken, 

Where,  and,  oh  !  how  we  shall  dine  ?     O  William, 
say  ! 

Yuba  Bill. 

It  ain't  my  fault,  nor  the  Kumpeney's,  I  reckon, 

Ye  can't  get  ez  square  meal  ez  any  on  the  Bay, 
Up  at  yon  place,  whar  the  senset  'pears  to  beckon — 

Ez  thet  sharp  allows  in  his  airy  sort  o'  way. 
Thar  woz  a  place  wor  yer  hash  ye  might  hev  wrestled, 

Kept  by  a  woman  ez  chipper  ez  a  jay — 
Warm  in  her  breast  all  the  morning  sunshine  nestled ; 

Red  on  her  cheeks  all  the  evening's  sunshine  lay. 

Second  Tourist. 

Praise  is  but  breath,  O  chariot  compeller ! 
Yet  of  that  hash  we  would  bid  you  farther  say. 


An  Idyl  of  the  Road.  1 53 

Yuba  Bill 

Thar  woz  a  snipe — like  you,  a  fancy  tourist — 

Kem  to  that  ranch  ez  if  to  make  a  stay, 
Ran  off  the  gal,  and  ruined  jist  the  purist 

Critter  that  lived 

Stranger  (quietly). 

You're  a  liar,  driver ! 

Yuba  Bill  (reaching  for  his  revolver). 

Eh! 
Here  take  my  lines,  somebody 

Chorus  of  Passengers. 

Hush,  boys  !  listen ! 
Inside  there's  a  lady  !     Remember  !    No  affray  ! 

Yuba  Bill 
Ef  that  man  lives,  the  fault  ain't  mine  or  his'n. 

Stranger. 

Wait  for  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away, 

Then — as  you  will !     But,  meantime,  friends,  believe  me, 
Nowhere  on  earth  lives  a  purer  woman  ;  nay, 

If  my  perceptions  do  surely  not  deceive  me, 
She  is  the  lady  we  have  inside  to-day. 

As  for  the  man — you  see  that  blackened  pine  tree, 
Up  which  the  green  vine  creeps  heavenward  away  ! 

He  was  that  scarred  trunk,  and  she  the  vine  that  sweetly 
Clothed  him  with  life  again,  and  lifted- - 


154  An  Idyl  of  the  Road. 


How  know  you  this  ? 


Second  Tourist. 
Yes  j  but  pray 

Stranger. 

She's  my  wife. 

Yuba  Bill 
The  h— 11  you  say  ! 


(     155    ) 


of 


IT  is  the  story  of  Thompson  —  of  Thompson,  the  hero  of 

Angels. 
Frequently  drunk  was  Thompson,  but  always  polite  to  the 

stranger  ; 
Light   and   free   was   the   touch   of  Thompson   upon   his 

revolver  ; 
Great  the  mortality  incident  on  that  lightness  and  freedom. 

Yet  not  happy  or  gay  was  Thompson,  the  hero  of  Angels  ; 
Often  spoke  to  himself  in  accents  of  anguish  and  sorrow, 
"  Why  do  I  make  the  graves  of  the  frivolous  youth  who  in 

folly 
Thoughtlessly  pass  my  revolver,  forgetting  its  lightness  and 

freedom  ? 

"Why  in  my  daily  walks  does  the  surgeon  drop  his  left 

eyelid, 
The   undertaker  smile,    and   the   sculptor    of   gravestone 

marbles 
Lean  on  his  chisel  and  gaze?     I  care  not  o'er  much  for 

attention  ; 
Simple  am  I  in  my  ways,  save  but  for  this  lightness  and 

freedom." 


1 5  6  Thompson  of  A  ngels. 

So  spake  that  pensive  man — this  Thompson,  the  hero  of 

Angels, 
Bitterly   smiled    to    himself,   as    he    strode    through   the 

chapparal  musing. 
"Why,  O  why?"  echoed  the  pines  in  the  dark  olive  depth 

far  resounding. 
'Why,   indeed?'7    whispered   the  sage   brush    that    bent 

'neath  his  feet  non-elastic. 


Pleasant  indeed  was  that  morn  that  dawned  o'er  the  bar 
room  at  Angels, 

Where  in  their  manhood's  prime  was  gathered  the  pride  of 
the  hamlet. 

Six  "took  sugar  in  theirs/7  and  nine  to  the  barkeeper 
lightly 

Smiled   as  they  said,   "Well,   Jim,  you  can  give  us   our 

regular  fusil." 

t 

Suddenly  as  the  grey  hawk  swoops  down  on  the  barnyard, 

alighting 
Where,  pensively  picking  their  corn,  the  favourite  pullets 

are  gathered, 
So  in  that  festive  bar-room  dropped  Thompson,  the  hero 

of  Angels, 
Grasping  his  weapon  dread  with  his  pristine  lightness  and 

freedom. 

Never  a  word  he  spoke ;  divesting  himself  of  his  garments, 
Danced  the  war-dance  of  the  playful  yet  truculent  Modoc, 
Uttered  a  single  whoop,  and  then,  in  the  accents  of  chal 
lenge, 

Spake :  "  Oh,  behold  in  me  a  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the 
mountain." 


Thompson  of  Angels.  157 

Then  rose  a  pallid  man — a  man  sick  with  fever  and  ague ; 

Small  was  he,  and  his  step  was  tremulous,  weak,  and  un 
certain  ; 

Slowly  a  Derringer  drew,  and  covered  the  person  of 
Thompson ; 

Said  in  his  feeblest  pipe,  "  I'm  a  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 
Valley." 

As  on  its  native  plains  the  kangaroo,  startled  by  hunters, 
Leaps  with  successive  bounds,  and  hurries  away  to  the 

thickets, 
So  leaped  the  Crested  Hawk,  and  quietly  hopping  behind 

him 
Ran,  and  occasionally  shot,  that  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 

Valley. 

Vain  at  the  festive  bar  still  lingered  the  people  of  Angels, 
Hearing  afar  in  the  woods  the  petulant  pop  of  the  pistol ; 
Never  again  returned  the  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the  moun 
tains, 
Never  again  was  seen  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the  Valley. 

Yet  in  the  hamlet  of  Angels,  when  truculent  speeches  are 

uttered, 
When  bloodshed  and  life  alone  will  atone  for  some  trifling 

misstatement, 
Maidens  and  men  in  their  prime  recall  the  last  hero  of 

Angels, 
Think  of  and  vainly  regret  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 

Valley ! 


(     158     ) 


(SIERRAS.) 

WE  checked  our  pace,  the  red  road  sharply  rounding ; 

We  heard  the  troubled  flow 
Of  the  dark  olive  depths  of  pines  resounding    '• 

A  thousand  feet  below. 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  canon  lifted, 

The  grey  hawk  breathless  hung, 
Or  on  the  hill  a  winged  shadow  drifted 

Where  furze  and  thorn-bush  clung ; 

Or  where  half-way  the  mountain  side  was  furrowed 

With  many  a  seam  and  scar  ; 
Or  some  abandoned  tunnel  dimly  burrowed, — 

A  mole-hill  seen  so  far. 

We  looked  in  silence  down  across  the  distant 

Unfathomable  reach  : 
A  silence  broken  by  the  guide's  consistent 

And  realistic  speech. 

"  Walker  of  Murphy's  blew  a  hole  through  Peters 

For  telling  him  he  lied  ; 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos 

Across  the  Long  Divide. 


The  Hawk's  Nest.  1 59 

"  We  ran  him  out  of  Strong's,  and  up  through  Eden 

And  'cross  the  ford  below, 
And  up  this  canon  (Peters'  brother  leadin'), 

And  me  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

"  He  fou't  us  game  :  somehow  I  disremember 

Jest  how  the  thing  kem  round ; 
Some  say  'twas  wadding,  some  a  scattered  ember 

From  fires  on  the  ground. 

11  But  in  one  minute  all  the  hill  below  him 

Was  just  one  sheet  of  flame ; 
Guardin'  the  crest,  Sam  Clark  and  I  called  to  him, 

And, — well,  the  dog  was  game  ! 

w  He  made  no  sign  :  the  fires  of  hell  were  round  him, 

The  pit  of  hell  below. 
We  sat  and  waited,  but  never  found  him ; 

And  then  we  turned  to  go. 

"And  then — you  see  that  rock  that's  grown  so  bristly 

With  chapparal  and  tan — 
Suthin  crep'  out :  it  might  hev  been  a  grizzly, 

It  might  hev  been  a  man ; 

"  Suthin  that  howled,  and  gnashed  its  teeth,  and 
shouted 

In  smoke  and  dust  and  flame ; 
Suthin  that  sprang  into  the  depths  about  it, 

Grizzly  or  man, — but  game  ! 

"  That's  all !     Well,  yes,  it  does  look  rather  risky, 

And  kinder  makes  one  queer 
And  dizzy  looking  down.     A  drop  of  whisky 

Ain't  a  bad  thing  right  here  ! " 


JLetter. 


I'M  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire,  — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France; 
I'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue  : 
In  short,  sir,  "  the  belle  of  the  season  " 

Is  wasting  an  hour  upon  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I've  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set  ; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  —  for  me  yet. 
They  say  he'll  be  rich,  —  when  he  grows  up,- 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed  ; 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read 

"  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?  " 

"  And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York?" 
"  And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ?  " 
"  And  isn't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that?  " 
"  And  aren't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  *  " 


Her  Letter.  161 

Well,  yes, — if  you  saw  us  out  driving 

Each  day  in  the  Park,  four-in-hand, — 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand, — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that, — 
You'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier, — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year," — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Chamb'ery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk, — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "  Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "The  Fork;" 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl ; 
Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle, 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-d-vt's  ; 
And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 

With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 
On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go ; 

Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 
From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow ; 

Of  that  ride, — that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 
Of— the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 

VOL.  I.  L 


1 62  Her  Letter. 

Ah  !  Joe,  then  I  wasn't  an  heiress 
To  "  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State,' 


Well,  well,  it's  all  past ;  yet  it's  funny 

To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 

And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I'm  writing ! 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low), 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I'm  spooning  on  Joseph, — heigh-ho  I 
And  I'm  to  be  "  finished  "  by  travel, — 

Whatever's  the  meaning  of  that. 
Oh,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good  night ! — here's  the  end  of  my  paper  ; 

Good  night ! — if  the  longitude  please, — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  haven't  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 

And  youVe  struck  it, — on  Poverty  Flat. 


to  "  $etr  letter," 

(REPORTED  BY  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.) 


BEING  asked  by  an  intimate  party,  — 

Which  the  same  I  would  term  as  a  friend,— 
Though  his  health  it  were  vain  to  call  hearty, 

Since  the  mind  to  deceit  it  might  lend  ; 
For  his  arm  it  was  broken  quite  recent, 

And  there's  something  gone  wrong  with  his  lung,- 
Which  is  why  it  is  proper  and  decent 

I  should  write  what  he  runs  off  his  tongue. 

First,  he  says,  Miss,  he's  read  through  your  letter 

To  the  end,  —  and  "  the  end  came  too  soon  ;  " 
That  a  "  slight  illness  kept  him  your  debtor," 

(Which  for  weeks  he  was  wild  as  a  loon)  ; 
That  "  his  spirits  are  buoyant  as  yours  is  ;  " 

That  with  you,  Miss,  he  "challenges  Fate," 
(Which  the  language  that  invalid  uses 

At  times  it  were  vain  to  relate). 

And  he  says  "  that  the  mountains  are  fairer 
For.  once  being  held  in  your  thought  ;  " 

That  each  rock  "  holds  a  wealth  that  is  rarer 
Than  ever  by  gold-seeker  sought." 


164         His  Answer  to  ''Her  Letter" 

(Which  are  words  he  would  put  in  these  pages, 

By  a  party  not  given  to  guile  ; 
Though  the  claim  not,  at  date,  paying  wages, 

Might  produce  in  the  sinful  a  smile.) 


He  remembers  the  ball  at  the  Ferry, 

And  the  ride,  and  the  gate,  and  the  vow, 
And  the  rose  that  you  gave  him, — that  very 

Same  rose  he  is  "treasuring  now." 
(Which  his  blanket  he's  kicked  on  his  trunk,  Miss, 

And  insists  on  his  legs  being  free ; 
And  his  language  to  me  from  his  bunk,  Miss, 

Is  frequent  and  painful  and  free.) 


He  hopes  you  are  wearing  no  willows, 

But  are  happy  and  gay  all  the  while ; 
That  he  knows — (which  this  dodging  of  pillows 

Imparts  but  small  ease  to  the  style, 
And  the  same  you  will  pardon) — he  knows,  Miss, 

That,  though  parted  by  many  a  mile, 
"  Yet,  were  he  lying  under  the  snows,  Miss, 

They'd  melt  into  tears  at  your  smile. " 


And  "  you'll  still  think  of  him  in  your  pleasures, 

In  your  brief  twilight  dreams  of  the  past ; 
In  this  green  laurel  spray  that  he  treasures, — 

It  was  plucked  where  your  parting  was  last ; 
In  this  specimen, — but  a  small  trifle, — 

It  will  do  for  a  pin  for  your  shawl." 
(Which,  the  truth  not  to  wickedly  stifle, 

Was  his  last  week's  "  clean  up," — and  his  all.) 


His  Answer  to  "Her  Letter"  165 

He's  asleep,  which  the  same  might  seem  strange,  Miss, 

Were  it  not  that  I  scorn  to  deny 
That  I  raised  his  last  dose,  for  a  change,  Miss, 

In  view  that  his  fever  was  high ; 
But  he  lies  there  quite  peaceful  and  pensive. 

And  now,  my  respects,  Miss,  to  you ; 
Which  my  language,  although  comprehensive, 

Might  seem  to  be  freedom,  it's  true. 


Which  I  have  a  small  favour  to  ask  you, 

As  concerns  a  bull-pup,  and  the  same, — 
If  the  duty  would  not  overtask  you, — 

You  would  please  to  procure  for  me,  game; 
And  send  per  express  to  the  Flat,  Miss, — 

For  they  say  York  is  famed  for  the  breed, 
Which,  though  words  of  deceit  may  be  that,  Miss, 

I'll  trust  to  your  taste,  Miss,  indeed. 

P.S. — Which  this  same  interfering 

Into  other  folks'  way  I  despise ; 
Yet  if  it  so  be  I  was  hearing 

That  it's  just  empty  pockets  as  lies 
Betwixt  you  and  Joseph,  it  follers 

That,  having  no  family  claims, 
Here's  my  pile,  which  it's  six  hundred  dollars, 

As  is  yours,  with  respects, 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


(     166     ) 


"  Cfje  Eeturn  of 

(MUD  FLAT,  1860.) 

So  you're  back  from  your  travels,  old  fellow, 

And  you  left  but  a  twelvemonth  ago ; 
You've  hobnobbed  with  Louis  Napoleon, 

Eugenie,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  toe. 
By  Jove,  it  is  perfectly  stunning, 

Astounding, — and  all  that,  you  know; 
Yes,  things  are  about  as  you  left  them 

In  Mud  Flat  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

The  boys  !— they're  all  right, — Oh  !  Dick  Ashley, 

He's  buried  somewhere  in  the  snow ; 
He  was  lost  on  the  Summit  last  winter, 

And  Bob  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 
You  knew  that  he's  got  the  consumption  ? 

You  didn't  !     Well  come,  that's  a  go  j 
I  certainly  wrote  you  at  Baden, — 

Dear  me  !  that  was  six  months  ago. 

I  got  all  your  outlandish  letters, 

All  stamped  by  some  foreign  P.O. 
I  handed  myself  to  Miss  Mary 

That  sketch  of  a  famous  chateau. 


* '  The  Return  of  JBelisarius. "  167 

Tom  Saunders  is  living  at  'Frisco, — 

They  say  that  he  cuts  quite  a  show 
You  didn't  meet  Euchre-deck  Billy 

Anywhere  on  your  road  to  Cairo  ? 


*  So  you  thought  of  the  rusty  old  cabin, 

The  pines,  and  the  valley  below, 
And  heard  the  North  Fork  of  the  Yuba 

As  you  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Po  ? 
'Twas  just  like  your  romance,  old  fellow; 

But  now  there  is  standing  a  row 
Of  stores  on  the  site  of  the  cabin 

That  you  lived  in  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

But  it's  jolly  to  see  you,  old  fellow, — 

To  think  it's  a  twelvemonth  ago  ! 
And  you  have  seen  Louis  Napoleon, 

And  look  like  a  Johnny  Crapaud. 
Come  in.     You  will  surely  see  Mary, — 

You  know  we  are  married.     What,  no  ?- 
Oh,  ay  !     I  forgot  there  was  something 

Between  you  a  twelvemonth  ago. 


(     168     ) 


Language  from  Crutfjful 

(NYE'S  FORD,  STANISLAUS,  1870.) 

Do  I  sleep  ?  do  I  dream  ? 
Do  I  wonder  and  doubt  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilisation  a  failure  ? 
Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 


Which  expressions  are  strong; 
/Yet  would  feebly  imply 
I   Some  account  of  a  wrong  — 
>  Not  to  call  it  a  lie  — 

As  was  worked  off  on  William,  my  pardner, 

And  the  same  being  W.  Nye. 

He  came  down  to  the  Ford 

On  the  very  same  day 

Of  that  lottery  drawed 

By  those  sharps  at  the  Bay  ; 

And  he  says  to  me,  "  Truthful,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

I  replied,  "It  is  far,  far  from  gay  ; 


Further  Language  from  Truthful  James.   169 

"  For  the  camp  has  gone  wild 

On  this  lottery  game, 

And  has  even  beguiled 

'  Injin  Dick  '  by  the  same." 

Then  said  Nye  to  me,  "  Injins  is  pizen  : 

But  what  is  his  number,  eh  ?  James  ?  " 


I  replied,  "  7,2, 
9,8,4,  is  his  hand  ; " 
When  he  started,  and  drew 
Out  a  list,  which  he  scanned ; 
Then  he  softly  went  for  his  revolver 
With  language  I  cannot  command. 

Then  I  said,  "William  Nye  I" 

But  he  turned  upon  me, 

And  the  look  in  his  eye 

Was  quite  painful  to  see ; 

And  he  says,  "  You  mistake  ;  this  poor  Injin 

I  protects  from  such  sharps  as  you  be  i " 

I  was  shocked  and  withdrew ; 

But  I  grieve  to  relate, 

When  he  next  met  my  view 

Injin  Dick  was  his  mate ; 

And  the  two  around  town  was  a-lying 

In  a  frightfully  dissolute  state. 

Which  the  war  dance  they  had 
Round  a  tree  at  the  Bend 
Was  a  sight  that  was  sad ; 
And  it  seemed  that  the  end 


170  Further  Language  from  Truthful  James. 

Would  not  justify  the  proceedings, 
As  I  quiet  remarked  to  a  friend. 


For  that  Injin  he  fled 

The  next  day  to  his  band ; 

And  we  found  William  spread 

Very  loose  on  the  strand, 

With  a  peaceful-like  smile  on  his  features, 

And  a  dollar  greenback  in  his  hand  ; 

Which  the  same,  when  rolled  out, 
We  observed,  with  surprise, 
Was  what  he,  no  doubt, 
Thought  the  number  and  prize — 
Them  figures  in  red  in  the  corner, 
Which  the  number  of  notes  specifies. 

Was  it  guile,  or  a  dream  ? 

Is  it  Nye  that  I  doubt  ? 

Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 

Or  is  visions  about  ? 

Is  our  civilisation  a  failure  ? 

Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 


after  tfje 

(MOUTH  OF  THE  SHAFT.) 

WHAT  I  want  is  my  husband,  sir,- 
And  if  you're  a  man,  sir, 

You'll  give  me  an  answer, — 
Where  is  my  Joe  ? 

Penrhyn,  sir,  Joe, — 

Caernarvonshire. 
Six  months  ago 

Since  we  came  here— 
Eh  ? — Ah,  you  know  1 

Well,  I  am  quiet 

And  still, 
But  I  must  stand  here, 

And  will ! 
Please,  I'll  be  strong, 

If  you'll  just  let  me  wait 

Inside  o'  that  gate 
Till  the  news  comes  along. 

"Negligence!"— 
That  was  the  cause  1— 
Butchery ! 


172  After  the  Accident. 

Are  there  no  laws, — 

Laws  to  protect  such  as  we  ? 


Well,  then ! 

I  won't  raise  my  voice. 
There,  men  ! 

I  won't  make  no  noise, 
Only  you  just  let  me  be. 

Four,  only  four — did  he  say — 
Saved  !  and  the  other  ones? — Eh? 

Why  do  they  call  ? 

Why  are  they  all 
Looking  and  coming  this  way  ? 

What's  that  ? — a  message? 

I'll  take  it. 
I  know  his  wife,  sir, 

I'll  break  it. 

"Foreman  !" 

Ay,  ay  ! 

"  Out  by  and  by,— 

Just  saved  his  life. 

Say  to  nis  wife 

Soon  he'll  be  free." 
Will  I  ?— God  bless  you ! 

It's  me  ! 


(     173    ) 


tfmt  3lt 


WHY,  as  to  that,  said  the  engineer, 
Ghosts  ain't  things  we  are  apt  to  fear  ; 
Spirits  don't  fool  with  levers  much, 
And  throttle-valves  don't  take  to  such. 

And  as  for  Jim, 

What  happened  to  him 
Was  one  half  fact  and  t'other  half  whim  ! 

Running  one  night  on  the  line,  he  saw 
A  house  —  as  plain  as  the  moral  law  — 
Just  by  the  moonlit  bank,  and  thence 
Came  a  drunken  man  with  no  more  sense 

Than  to  drop  on  the  rail 

Flat  as  a  flail, 
As  Jim  drove  by  with  the  midnight  mail 

Down  went  the  patents  —  steam  reversed. 
Too  late  !  for  there  came  a  "thud."     Jim  cursed 
As  the  fireman,  there  in  the  cab  with  him, 
Kinder  stared  in  the  face  of  Jim, 

And  says,  "What  now?" 

Says  Jim,  "  What  now  ! 
I've  just  run  over  a  man,  —  that's  faow  1  * 


1 74  The  Ghost  that  Jim  Saw. 

The  fireman  stared  at  Jim.     They  ran 
Back,  but  they  never  found  house  nor  man,- 
Nary  a  shadow  within  a  mile. 
Jim  turned  pale,  but  he  tried  to  smile, 

Then  on  he  tore 

Ten  mile  or  more, 
In  quicker  time  than  he'd  made  afore. 


Would  you  believe  it !  the  very  next  night 
Up  rose  that  house  in  the  moonlight  white, 
Out  comes  the  chap  and  drops  as  before, 
Down  goes  the  brake  and  the  rest  encore ; 

And  so,  in  fact, 

Each  night  that  act 
Occurred,  till  folks  swore  Jim  was  cracked 


umph  !  let  me  see  ;  it's  a  year  now,  'most, 
That  I  met  Jim,  East,  and  says,  "  How's  your  ghost  ? 
"  Gone,"  says  Jim  ;  "  and  more,  it's  plain 
That  ghost  don't  trouble  me  again. 

I  thought  I  shook 

That  ghost  when  I  took 
A  place  on  an  Eastern  line, — but  look  ! 

"What  should  I  meet,  the  first  trip  out, 

But  the  very  house  we  talked  about, 

And  the  selfsame  man  !     *  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  guess 

It's  time  to  stop  this  'yer  foolishness.' 

So  I  crammed  on  steam, 

When  there  came  a  scream 
From  my  fireman,  that  jest  broke  my  dream : 


The  Ghost  that  Jim  Saw.  175 

" '  YouVe  killed  somebody  ! '     Says  I,  *  Not  much  ! 
I've  been  thar  often,  and  thar  ain't  no  such, 
And  now  I'll  prove  it ! '     Back  we  ran, 
And, — darn  my  skin  ! — but  thar  was  a  man 

On  the  rail,  dead, 

Smashed  in  the  head  ! — 
Now  I  call  that  meanness  ! "    That's  all  Jim  said. 


(     176    ) 


(MR.    INTERVIEWER  INTERVIEWED.) 

KNOW  me  next  time  when  you  see  me,  won't  you,  old 

smarty  ? 

Oh,  I  mean  you,  old  figger-head, — just  the  same  party  ! 
Take  out  your  pensivil,  d — n  you ;  sharpen  it,  do  ! 
Any  complaints  to  make  ?    Lot's  of  'em — one  of  'em's  you. 

You !  who  are  you>  anyhow,  goin'  round  in  that  sneakin' 

way? 

Never  in  jail  before,  was  you,  old  blatherskite,  say? 
Look  at  it ;  don't  it  look  pooty  ?     Oh,  grin,  and  be  d — d  to 

you,  do ! 
But  if  I  had  you  this  side  o'  that  gratin',  I'd  just  make  it 

lively  for  you. 

How  did  I  get  in  here  ?     Well  what  'ud  you  give  to  know  ? 
'Twasn't  by  sneakin'  round  where  I  hadn't  no  call  to  go : 
'Twasn't  by  hangin'  round  a-spyin'  unfortnet  men. 
Grin  !  but  I'll  stop  your  jaw  if  ever  you  do  that  agen. 

Why  don't  you  say  suthin,  blast  you  ?    Speak  your  mind  if 

you  dare. 
Ain't  I  a  bad  lot,  sonny  ?    Say  it,  and  call  it  square. 


"Seventy-Nine"  1 77 

Hain't  got  no  tongue,  hey,  hev  ye  ?     O  guard !  here's  a 

little  swell 
A  cussin'  and  swearin'  and  yellin',  and  bribin'  me  not  to 

tell. 


There !  I  thought  that  'ud  fetch  ye  !  And  you  want  to  know 
my  name  ? 

"  Seventy-nine  "  they  call  me,  but  that  is  their  little  game ; 

For  I  am  werry  highly  connected,  as  a  gent,  sir,  can  under 
stand, 

And  my  family  hold  their  heads  up  with  the  very  furst  in 
the  land. 

For  'twas  all,  sir,  a  put-up  job  on  a  pore  young  man  like 

me; 
And  the  jury  was  bribed  a  puppos,  and  at  furst  they  couldn't 

agree ; 
And  I  sed  to  the  judge,  sez  I, — Oh,  grin  !  it's  all  right,  my 

son  ! 
But  you're  a  werry  lively  young  pup,  and  you  ain't  to  be 

played  upon ! 

Wot's  that  you  got  ? — tobacco  ?     I'm  cussed  but  I  thought 

'twas  a  tract. 
Thank  ye !     A  chap  t'other  day — now,  lookee,  this  is  a 

fact- 
Slings  me  a  tract  on  the  evils  o'  keepin'  bad  company, 
As  if  all  the  saints  was  howlin'  to  stay  here  along  o'  we. 


No,  I  hain't  no  complaints.     Stop,  yes ;  do  you  see  that 

chap,— 

Him  standin'  over  there,  a-hidin'  his  eyes  in  his  cap  ? 
VOL.  i.  M 


1 7  8  "Seventy-Nine." 

Well,  that  man's  stumick  is  weak,  and  he  can't  stand  the 
pris'n  fare  ; 

For  the  coffee  is  just  half  beans,  and  the  sugar  it  ain't  no 
where. 

Perhaps  it's  his  bringin'  up ;  but  he's  sickenin'  day  by  day, 
And  he  doesn't  take  no  food,  and  I'm  seein'  him  waste 

away. 
And  it  isn't  the  thing  to  see ;  for,  whatever  he's  been  and 

done, 
Starvation  isn't  the  plan  as  he's  to  be  saved  upon. 

For  he  cannot  rough  it  like  me ;  and  he  hasn't  the  stamps, 

I  guess, 

To  buy  him  his  extry  grub  outside  o'  the  pris'n  mess. 
And  perhaps  if  a  gent  like  you,  with  whom  I've  been  sorter 

free, 
Would — thank  you  !     But,  say  !  look  here  !     Oh,  blast  it ! 

don't  give  it  to  ME  ! 

Don't  you  give  it  to  me ;  now,  don't  ye,  don't  ye,  don't! 
You  think  it's  a  put-up  job  ;  so  I'll  thank  ye,  sir,  if  you 

won't. 
But  hand  him  the  stamps  yourself :  why,  he  isn't  even  my 

pal; 
And,  if  it's  a  comfort  to  you,  why,  I  don't  intend  that  he 

shall 


(     179 


Cfje 


IT  was  the  stage-  driver's  story,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to 

the  wheelers, 

Quietly  flecking  his  whip,  and  turning  his  quid  of  tobacco  ; 
While  on  the  dusty  road,  and  blent  with  the  rays  of  the 

moonlight, 
We  saw  the  long  curl  of  his  lash  and  the  juice  of  tobacco 

descending. 

"  Danger  !    Sir,  I  believe  you,  —  indeed,  I  may  say,  on  that 

subject, 
You  your  existence  might  put  to  the  hazard  and  turn  of  a 

wager. 
I  have  seen  danger  ?    Oh,  no  !  not  me,  sir,  indeed,  I  assure 

you  : 
'Twas  only  the  man  with  the  dog  that  is  sitting  alone  in  yon 

waggon. 

"  It  was  the  Geiger  Grade,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  sum 

mit  : 
Black  as  your  hat  was  the  night,  and  never  a  star  in  the 

heavens. 
Thundering  down  the  grade,  the  gravel  and  stones  we  sent 

flying 
Over  the  precipice  side,  —  a  thousand  feet  plumb  to   the 

bottom. 


180  The  Stage-Driver's  Story. 

"  Half-way  down  the  grade  I  felt,  sir,  a  thrilling  and  creak 
ing, 

Then  a  lurch  to  one  side,  as  we  hung  on  the  bank  of  the 
canon ; 

Then,  looking  up  the  road,  I  saw,  in  the  distance  behind 
me,  » 

The  off  hind  wheel  of  the  coach,  just  loosed  from  its  axle, 
and  following. 


"  One  glance  alone  I  gave,  then  gathered  together  my  rib 
bons, 

Shouted,  and  flung  them,  outspread,  on  the  straining  necks 
of  my  cattle ; 

Screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  lashed  the  air  in  my 
frenzy, 

While  down  the  Geiger  Grade,  on  three  wheels,  the  vehicle 
thundered 


"  Speed  was  our  only  chance,  when  again  came  the  ominous 
rattle : 

Crack,  and  another  wheel  slipped  away,  and  was  lost  in  the 
darkness. 

Two  only  now  were  left ;  yet  such  was  our  fearful  momen 
tum, 

Upright,  erect,  and  sustained  on  two  wheels,  the  vehicle 
thundered. 


"As  some  huge  bowlder,  unloosed  from  its  rocky  shelf  on 

the  mountain, 
Drives  before  it  the  hare  and  the  timorous  squirrel,  far 

leaping, 


The  Stage- Driver's  Story.  1 8 1 

So  down  the  Geiger  Grade  rushed  the  Pioneer  coach,  and 

before  it 
Leaped  the  wild  horses,  and  shrieked  in  advance  of  the 

danger  impending. 

"  But  to  be  brief  in  my  tale.     Again,  ere  we  came  to  the 

level, 
Slipped  from  its  axle  a  wheel ;  so  that,  to  be  plain  in  my 

statement, 
A  matter  of  twelve  hundred  yards  or  more,  as  the  distance 

may  be, 
We  travelled  upon  one  wheel,  until  we  drove  up  to  the 

station. 

"  Then,  sir,  we  sank  in  a  heap ;  but,  picking  myself  from  the 

ruins, 
I  heard  a  noise  up  the  grade;  and  looking,  I  saw  in  the 

distance 
The  three  wheels  following  still,  like  moons  on  the  horizon 

whirling, 
Till,  circling,  they  gracefully  sank  on  the  road  at  the  side  of 

the  station. 

"  This  is  my  story,  sir ;  a  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you. 
Much  more,  perchance,  might  be  said — but  I  hold  him  of 

all  men  most  lightly 
Who  swerves  from  the  truth  in  his  tale.     No,  thank  you — 

Well,  since  you  are  pressing, 
Perhaps  I  don't  care  if  I  do :  you  may  give  me  the  same, 

Jim, — no  sugar/' 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


3  dftegport  EegenU* 

(1797.) 

THEY  ran  through  the  streets  of  the  seaport  town, 
They  peered  from  the  decks  of  the  ships  that  lay ; 
The  cold  sea-fog  that  came  whitening  down 
Was  never  as  cold  or  white  as  they. 

"  Ho,  Starbuck  and  Pinckney  and  Tenterden  ! 

Run  for  your  shallops,  gather  your  men, 
Scatter  your  boats  on  the  lower  bay. 

Good  cause  for  fear  !     In  the  thick  mid-day 

The  hulk  that  lay  by  the  rotting  pier, 

Filled  with  the  children  in  happy  play, 

Parted  its  moorings  and  drifted  clear, — 

Drifted  clear  beyond  the  reach  or  call, — 
Thirteen  children  they  were  in  all, — 
All  adrift  in  the  lower  bay  ! 

Said  a  hard-faced  skipper,  "  God  help  us  all ! 

She  will  not  float  till  the  turning  tide  ! " 

Said  his  wife,  "  My  darling  will  hear  my  call, 

Whether  in  sea  or  heaven  she  bide," 

And  she  lifted  a  quavering  voice  and  high, 
Wild  and  strange  as  a  sea-bird's  cry, 

Till  they  shuddered  and  wondered  at  her  side. 


1 86  A  Greyport  Legend. 

The  fog  drove  down  on  each  labouring  crew, 
Veiled  each  from  each  and  the  sky  and  shore : 
There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  breath  they  drew, 
And  the  lap  of  water  and  creak  of  oar  ; 

And  they  felt  the  breath  of  the  downs,  fresh  blown 
O'er  leagues  of  clover  and  cold  grey  stone, 
But  not  from  the  lips  that  had  gone  before. 

They  come  no  more.     But  they  tell  the  tale, 

That,  when  fogs  are  thick  on  the  harbour  reef, 

The  mackerel  fishers  shorten  sail ; 

For  the  signal  they  know  will  bring  relief : 
For  the  voices  of  children,  still  at  play 
In  a  phantom  hulk  that  drifts  alway 

Through  channels  whose  waters  never  fail 

It  is  but  a  foolish  shipman's  tale, 

A  theme  for  a  poet's  idle  page ; 

But  still,  when  the  mists  of  doubt  prevail, 

And  we  lie  becalmed  by  the  shores  of  Age, 
We  hear  from  the  misty  troubled  shore 
The  voice  of  the  children  gone  before, 
Drawing  the  soul  to  its  anchorage, 


f 


Romance* 


THEY  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 

(I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me)  ; 
But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 

Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French  : 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms  —  poor  wench  !— 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 
Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  golden-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened  —  the  mischief  take  her  ! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave  ;  and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
From  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 


1 88  A  Newport  Romance. 


f 


And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  rilled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odour  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story  ;  yet, 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ? 

•  .  •  .  *  • 

I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night, — 

Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea ; 
And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 

In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two ; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 
From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.     Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  o'erwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret  ? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odour  of  mignonette  1 


A  Newport  Romance.  189 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean — to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 

In  my  neighbour's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss ; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odour  of  mignonette  there  is 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn ; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 
As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 

Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 
And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 

That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 

And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door ; 
For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  arc  laid, 

She  is  viewless  for  evermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 

Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 
I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 

She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night ! 


©an  jfrancteco, 

(FROM  THE  SEA.) 

SERENE,  indifferent  of  Fate, 

Thou  sittest  at  the  Western  Gate ;  . 

Upon  thy  height,  so  lately  won, 
Still  slant  the  banners  of  the  sun ; 

Thou  seest  the  white  seas  strike  their  tents, 
O  Warder  of  two  Continents  ! 

And,  scornful  of  the  peace  that  flies 
Thy  angry  winds  and  sullen  skies, 

Thou  drawest  all  things,  small  or  great, 

To  thee,  beside  the  Western  Gate. 

•  ....» 

0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast ! 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  wilful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material 


San  Francisco.  191 

Drop  down,  O  Fleecy  Fog,  and  hide 
Her  sceptic  sneer  and  all  her  pride  ! 

Wrap  her,  O  Fog,  in  gown  and  hood 
Of  her  Franciscan  Brotherhood. 

Hide  me  her  faults,  her  sin  and  blame ; 
With  thy  grey  mantle  cloak  her  shame  t 

So  shall  she,  cowled,  sit  and  pray 
Till  morning  bears  her  sins  away. 

Then  rise,  O  Fleecy  Fog,  and  raise 
The  glory  of  her  coming  days  ; 

Be  as  the  cloud  that  flecks  the  seas 
Above  her  smoky  argosies ; 

When  forms  familiar  shall  give  place 
To  stranger  speech  and  newer  face ; 

When  all  her  throes  and  anxious  fears 
Lie  hushed  in  the  repose  of  years ; 

When  Art  shall  raise  and  Culture  lift 
The  sensual  joys  and  meaner  thrift, 

And  all  fulfilled  the  vision  we 
Who  watch  and  wait  shall  never  see, 

Who,  in  the  morning  of  her  race, 
Toiled  fair  or  meanly  in  our  place, 

But,  yielding  to  the  common  lot, 
Lie  unrecorded  and  forgot. 


(     '92    ) 


Cfte  fountain 


BY  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shining, 

By  furrowed  glade  and  dell, 
To  feverish  men  thy  calm,  sweet  face  uplifting, 

Thou  stayest  them  to  tell 

The  delicate  thought  that  cannot  find  expression, 

For  ruder  speech  too  fair, 
That,  like  thy  petals,  trembles  in  possession, 

And  scatters  on  the  air. 

The  miner  pauses  in  his  rugged  labour, 

And,  leaning  on  his  spade, 
Laughingly  calls  unto  his  comrade-neighbour 

To  see  thy  charms  displayed. 

But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises, 

And  for  a  moment  clear 
Some  sweet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises 

And  passes  in  a  tear,  — 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village, 

Of  uneventful  toil, 
Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 

Above  a  peaceful  soil 


The  Mountain  Hearfs-Ease.  1 93 

One  moment  only,  for  the  pick,  uplifting, 

Through  root  and  fibre  cleaves, 
And  on  the  muddy  current  slowly  drifting 

Are  swept  thy  bruised  leaves. 

And  yet,  O  poet,  in  thy  homely  fashion, 

Thy  work  thou  dost  fulfil, 
For  on  the  turbid  current  of  his  passion 

Thy  face  is  shining  still  1 


VOL. 


(     194    ) 


COWARD, — of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise; 
Savage, — whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks ; 
Robber, — whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard ; 
Whiskered  chin  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes, — 
Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 
Shambling,  shuffling  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed  ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half-human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets,- 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 


Grizzly.  195 

In  thy  fat-jo wled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 
Thou  mayst  levy  tithe  and  dole ; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear ; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still ! 


(     196     ) 


CAPTAIN  of  the  Western  wood, 
Thou  that  apest  Robin  Hood ! 
Green  above  thy  scarlet  hose, 
How  thy  velvet  mantle  shows ; 
Never  tree  like  thee  arrayed, 
Oh  thou  gallant  of  the  glade ! 

When  the  fervid  August  sun 
Scorches  all  it  looks  upon, 
And  the  balsam  of  the  pine 
Drips  from  stem  to  needle  fine, 
Round  thy  compact  shade  arranged, 
Not  a  leaf  of  thee  is  changed ! 


When  the  yellow  autumn  sun 
Saddens  all  it  looks  upon, 
Spreads  its  sackcloth  on  the  hills, 
Strews  its  ashes  in  the  rills, 
Thou  thy  scarlet  hose  dost  doff, 
And  in  limbs  of  purest  buff 
Challengest  the  sombre  glade 
For  a  sylvan  masquerade. 


Madrono. 

Where,  O  where,  shall  he  begin 
Who  would  paint  thee,  Harlequin  ? 
With  thy  waxen  burnished  leaf, 
With  thy  branches'  red  relief, 
With  thy  polytinted  fruit, — 
In  thy  spring  or  autumn  suit, — 
Where  begin,  and  oh !  where  end, — 
Thou  whose  charms  all  art  transcend  ? 


(     198    ) 


Cogote, 

BLOWN  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid,  yet  lazy  all  through ; 
Loath  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing,  an  outcast  in  grey. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping,  now  limping,  now  risking  a  fall, 
Lop-eared  and  large  jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  grey. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow, — he's  one  of  your  kind, — 
Go,  seek  him,  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 
What !  snarling,  my  Carlo  !     So  even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  grey. 

Well,  take  what  you  will, — though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding,  or  begging, — I  shall  not  ask  why ; 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  grey  I 


(     199    ) 


Co  a 

(SANTA  CRUZ,  1869.) 

SAUNTERING  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale, that  rings,— 

Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that's  new, 
Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee  ; 

Sick  am  I  of  these  changes,  too ; 

Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue, — ' 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me ; 
All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here, 
This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer, — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we ; 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seek'st  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest, — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea, 


(       200      ) 


OTmt  tfje  Cfnmneg 


OVER  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew  ; 

And  the  Woman  stopped,  as  her  babe  she  tossed, 
And  thought  of  the  one  she  had  long  since  lost, 

And  said,  as  her  tear-drops  back  she  forced, 
"  I  hate  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 


Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

And  the  Children  said,  as  they  closer  drew, 

"  'Tis  some  witch  that  is  cleaving  the  black  night 
through, — 

Tis  a  fairy  trumpet  that  just  then  blew, 
And  we  fear  the  wind  in  the  chimney/' 


Over  the  chimney  the  night- wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

And  the  Man,  as  he  sat  on  his  hearth  below, 
Said  to  himself,  "  It  will  surely  snow, 

And  fuel  is  dear  and  wages  low, 

And  111  stop  the  leak  in  the  chimney." 


What  the  Chimney  Sang.  201 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

But  the  Poet  listened  and  smiled,  for  he 
Was  Man,  and  Woman,  and  Child,  all  three, 

And  said,  "  It  is  God's  own  harmony, 
This  wind  we  hear  in  the  chimney." 


(      2O2      ) 


5Dicfcen0  in 


ABOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humour,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,— 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall  ; 


Dickens  in  Camp.  203 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell "  on  English  meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — overtaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp  and  wasted  all  its  fire : 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ? — 
Ah  !  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp,  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vine's  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine ! 


JVLY,  1870. 


(     204    ) 


"Ctoentg 


BEG  your  pardon,  old  fellow  !  I  think 
I  was  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke. 
The  fact  is,  the  musical  clink 
Of  the  ice  on  your  wine-goblet's  brink 
A  chord  of  my  memory  woke. 

And  I  stood  in  the  pasture-field  where 
Twenty  summers  ago  I  had  stood  ; 
And  I  heard  in  that  sound,  I  declare, 
The  clinking  of  bells  in  the  air, 
Of  the  cows  coming  home  from  the  wood. 


Then  the  apple-bloom  shook  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  mullein-stocks  tilted  each  lance ; 
And  the  sun  behind  Rapalye's  mill-.— ^ 
Was  my  uttermost  West,  £nd  coulci  thrill 
Like  some  fanciful  land  of  romance. 


Then  my  friend  was  a  hero,  and  then 
My  girl  was  an  angel.     In  fine, 
I  drank  buttermilk  ;  for  at  ten 
Faith  asks  less  to  aid  her  than  when 
At  thirty  we  doubt  over  wine. 


"Twenty  Years."  205 

Ah  !  well,  it  does  seem  that  I  must 

Have  been  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke, 

Or  lost,  very  like,  in  the  dust 

Of  the  years  that  slow  fashioned  the  crust 

On  that  bottle  whose  seal  you  last  broke. 

Twenty  years  was  its  age,  did  you  say  ? 
Twenty  years  ?    Ah  !  my  friend,  it  is  true  ? 
All  the  dreams  that  have  flown  since  that  day, 
All  the  hopes  in  that  time  passed  away, 
Old  friend,  I've  been  drinking  with  you ! 


(      206      ) 


jTate. 

"  THE  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare  ? 
The  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in  air  ; 
The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 

"  The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 
The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb  ; 
And  the  lion's  whelps  are  abroad  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  join  in  the  chase  to-day." 

But  the  ship  sailed  safely  over  the  sea, 
And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in  glee ; 
And  the  town  that  was  builded  upon  a  rock 
Was  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake  shock. 


(    207 


(0rantimotf)er  CenterDen* 

(MASSACHUSETTS  SHORE,  1800.) 

I  MIND  it  was  but  yesterday, — 
The  sun  was  dim,  the  air  was  chill; 
Below  the  town,  below  the  hill, 
The  sails  of  my  son's  ship  did  fill, — 

My  Jacob,  who  was  cast  away. 

He  said,  "  God  keep  you,  mother  dear," 
But  did  not  turn  to  kiss  his  wife ; 
They  had  some  foolish,  idle  strife  ; 
Her  tongue  was  like  a  two-edged  knife, 

And  he  was  proud  as  any  peer. 

Howbeit  that  night  I  took  no  note 
Of  sea  nor  sky,  for  all  was  drear  ;. 
I  marked  not  that  the  hills  looked  near, 
Nor  that  the  moon,  though  curved  and  clear, 

Through  curd-like  scud  did  drive  and  float 

For  with  my  darling  went  the  joy 
Of  autumn  woods  and  meadows  brown  j 
I  came  to  hate  the  little  town ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  went  down 

With  him,  my  only  darling  boy. 


208  Grandmother  Tenterden. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night, 
The  wind  it  shifted  west-by-south  ; 
It  piled  high  up  the  harbour  mouth  ; 
The  marshes,  black  with  summer  drouth, 

Were  all  abroad  with  sea-foam  white. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night, — 
The  sea  upon  the  garden  leapt, 
And  my  son's  wife  in  quiet  slept, 
And  I,  his  mother,  waked  and  wept, 

When  lo  !  there  came  a  sudden  light. 

And  there  he  stood  !  his  seaman's  dress 
All  wet  and  dripping  seemed  to  be ; 
The  pale  blue  fires  of  the  sea 
Dripped  from  his  garments  constantly, — 

I  could  not  speak  through  cowardness. 

"I  come  through  night  and  storm,"  he  said ; 
"  Through  storm  and  night  and  death,"  said  he, 
"  To  kiss  my  wife,  if  it  so  be 
That  strife  still  holds  'twixt  her  and  me, 

For  all  beyond  is  peace,"  he  said. 

"  The  sea  is  His,  and  He  who  sent 
The  wind  and  wave  can  soothe  their  strife ; 
And  brief  and  foolish  is  our  life." 
He  stooped  and  kissed  his  sleeping  wife, 

Then  sighed,  and,  like  a  dream,  he  went. 

Now,  when  my  darling  kissed  not  me, 
But  her — his  wife — who  did  not  wake, 
My  heart  within  me  seemed  to  break ; 
I  swore  a  vow,  nor  thenceforth  spake 

Of  what  my  clearer  eyes  did  see. 


Grandmother  Tenterden.  209 

And  when  the  slow  weeks  brought  him  not, 
Somehow  we  spake  of  aught  beside, 
For  she, — her  hope  upheld  her  pride ; 
And  I, — in  me  all  hope  had  died, 

And  my  son  passed  as  if  forgot. 

It  was  about  the  next  spring-tide, 
She  pined  and  faded  where  she  stood ; 
Yet  spake  no  word  of  ill  or  good  ; 
She  had  the  hard,  cold,  Edwards'  blood 

In  all  her  veins, — and  so  she  died. 

One  time  I  thought,  before  she  passed, 
To  give  her  peace  ;  but  ere  I  spake 
Methought,  "  He  will  be  first  to  break 
The  news  in  heaven,"  and  for  his  sake 

I  held  mine  back  until  the  last. 

And  here  I  sit,  nor  care  to  roam ; 
I  only  wait  to  hear  his  call ; 
I  doubt  not  that  this  day  next  fall 
Shall  see  me  safe  in  port,  where  all 

And  every  ship  at  last  comes  home. 

And  you  have  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
And  knew  my  Jacob  ?  .  .  .  Eh  !  Mercy  ! 
Ah  !  God  of  wisdom  !  hath  the  sea 
Yielded  its  dead  to  humble  me  ? 

My  boy !  ...  My  Jacob  !  .  .  .  Turn  again  ! 


VOL.  L  O 


I      210      ) 


WILLIAM  GUILD  was  engineer  of  the  train  which  on  the 
of  April  plunged  into  Meadow  Brook,  on  the  line  of  the 
Stonington  and  Providence  Railroad.  It  was  his  custom, 
as  often  as  he  passed  his  home,  to  whistle  an  "  All's  well " 
to  his  wife.  He  was  found,  after  the  disaster,  dead,  with 
his  hand  on  the  throttle- valve  of  his  engine. 

Two  low  whistles,  quaint  and  clear, 
That  was  the  signal  the  engineer — 

That  was  the  signal  that  Guild,  'tis  said — 
Gave  to  his  wife  at  Providence, 
As  through  the  sleeping  town,  and  thence, 
Out  in  the  night, 
On  to  the  light, 
Down  past  the  farms,  lying  white,  he  sped ! 

As  a  husband's  greeting,  scant,  no  doubt, 
Yet  to  the  woman  looking  out, 

Watching  and  waiting,  no  serenade, 
Love  song,  or  midnight  roundelay 
Said  what  that  whistle  seemed  to  say: 
"  To  my  trust  true, 
So  love  to  you  ! 
Working  or  waiting,  good  night ! "  it  said. 


Guild 's  Signal.  211 

Brisk  young  bagmen,  tourists  fine, 
Old  commuters  along  the  line, 

Brakemen  and  porters  glanced  ahead, 
Smiled  as  the  signal,  sharp,  intense, 
Pierced  through  the  shadows  of  Providence : 
"  Nothing  amiss — 
Nothing  ! — it  is 
Only  Guild  calling  his  wife,"  they  said. 

Summer  and  winter  the  old  refrain 
Rang  o'er  the  billows  of  ripening  grain, 

Pierced  through  the  budding  boughs  overhead 
Flew  down  the  track  when  the  red  leaves  burned 
Like  living  coals  from  the  engine  spurned ; 
Sang  as  it  flew  : 
"  To  our  trust  true, 
First  of  all,  duty.     Good  night ! "  it  said 

And  then,  £>ne  night,  it  was  heard  no  more 
From  Stonington  over  Rhode  Island  shore, 

And  the  folk  in  Providence  smiled  and  said 
As  they  turned  in  their  beds,  "  The  engineer 
Has  once  forgotten  his  midnight  cheer." 
One  only  knew, 
To  his  trust  true, 
Guild  lay  under  his  engine  dead. 


(   2I2 


Eatne, 

(A   CHEMICAL   NARRATIVE.) 

CERTAIN  facts  which  serve  to  explain 
The  physical  charms  of  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Who,  as  the  common  reports  obtain, 
Surpassed  in  complexion  the  lily  and  rose  ; 
With  a  very  sweet  mouth  and  a  retrousse  nose ; 
A  figure  like  Hebe's,  or  that  which  revolves 
In  a  milliner's  window,  and  partially  solves 
That  question  which  mentor  and  moralist  pains, 
If  grace  may  exist  minus  feeling  or  brains. 

Of  course  the  young  lady  had  beaux  by  the  score, 
All  that  she  wanted, — what  girl  could  ask  more? 
Lovers  that  sighed,  and  lovers  that  swore, 
Lovers  that  danced,  and  lovers  that  played, 
Men  of  profession,  of  leisure,  and  trade ; 
But  one,  who  was  destined  to  take  the  high  part 
Of  holding  that  mythical  treasure,  her  heart, — 
This  lover — the  wonder  and  envy  of  town — 
Was  a  practising  chemist, — a  fellow  called  Brown. 

I  might  here  remark  that  'twas  doubted  by  many, 
In  regard  to  the  heart,  if  Miss  Addie  had  any ; 


Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine.  213 

But  no  one  could  look  in  that  eloquent  face, 
With  its  exquisite  outline  and  features  of  grace> 
And  mark,  through  the  transparent  skin,  how  the  tide 
Ebbed  and  flowed  at  the  impulse  of  passion  or  pride, — 
None  could  look  who  believed  in  the  blood's  circulation 
As  argued  by  Harvey,  but  saw  confirmation 
.  That  here,  at  least,  Nature  had  triumphed  o'er  art, 
And,  as  far  as  complexion  went,  she  had  a  heart 

But  this  par  parenthesis.     Brown  was  the  man 

Preferred  of  all  others  to  carry  her  fan, 

Hook  her  glove,  drape  her  shawl,  and  do  all  that  a  belle 

May  demand  of  the  lover  she  wants  to  treat  well. 

Folks  wondered  and  stared  that  a  fellow  called  Brown — 

Abstracted  and  solemn,  in  manner  a  clown, 

111  dressed,  with  a  lingering  smell  of  the  shop — 

Should  appear  as  her  escort  at  party  or  hop. 

Some  swore  he  had  cooked  up  some  villanous  charm, 

Or  love  philter,  not  in  the  regular  Pharm- 

Acopceia,  and  thus,  from  pure  malice  prepense, 

Had  bewitched  and  bamboozled  the  young  lady's  sense ; 

Others  thought,  with  more  reason,  the  secret  to  lie 

In  a  magical  wash  or  indelible  dye ; 

While  Society,  with  its  censorious  eye 

And  judgment  impartial,  stood  ready  to  damn 

What  wasn't  improper  as  being  a  sham. 

For  a  fortnight  the  townfolk  had  all  been  agog 
With  a  party,  the  finest  the  season  had  seen, 
To  be  given  in  honour  of  Miss  Pollywog, 
Who  was  just  coming  out  as  a  belle  of  sixteen. 
The  guests  were  invited ;  but  one  night  before 
A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  modest  back-door 


214  Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine. 

Of  Brown's  lab'ratory,  and,  full  in  the  glare 
Of  a  big  purple  bottle,  some  closely-veiled  fair 
Alighted  and  entered :  to  make  matters  plain, 
Spite  of  veils  and  disguises,  'twas  Addie  De  Laine. 


As  a  bower  for  true  love,  'twas  hardly  the  one 
That  a  lady  would  choose  to  be  wooed  in  or  won : 
No  odour  of  rose  or  sweet  jessamine's  sigh 
Breathed  a  fragrance  to  hallow  their  pledge  of  troth  by, 
Nor  the  balm  that  exhales  from  the  odorous  thyme ; 
But  the  gaseous  effusions  of  chloride  of  lime, 
And  salts,  which  your  chemist  delights  to  explain 
As  the  base  of  the  smell  of  the  rose  and  the  drain. 
Think  of  this,  O  ye  lovers  of  sweetness  !  and  know 
What  you  smell  when  you  snuff  up  Lubin  or  Pinaud. 


I  pass  by  the  greetings,  the  transports  and  bliss, 

Which,  of  course,  duly  followed  a  meeting  like  this, 

And  come  down  to  business ; — for  such  the  intent 

Of  the  lady  who  now  o'er  the  crucible  leant, 

In  the  glow  of  a  furnace  of  carbon  and  lime, 

Like  a  fairy  called  up  in  the  new  pantomime , — 

And  give  but  her  words  as  she  coyly  looked  down, 

In  reply  to  the  questioning  glances  of  Brown  : 

"  I  am  taking  the  drops,  and  am  using  the  paste, 

And  the  little  white  powders  that  had  a  sweet  taste, 

Which  you  told  me  would  brighten  the  glance  of  my  eye, 

And  the  depilatory,  and  also  the  dye, 

And  I'm  charmed  with  the  trial ;  and  now,  my  dear  Brown, 

I  have  one  other  favour, — now,  ducky,  don't  frown, — 

Only  one,  for  a  chemist  and  genius  like  you 

But  a  trifle,  and  one  you  can  easily  do. 


Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine.  2 1 5 

Now  listen  :  to-morrow,  you  know,  is  the  night 

Of  the  birthday  soiree  of  that  Polly wog  fright ; 

And  I'm  to  be  there,  and  the  dress  I  shall  wear 

Is  too  lovely  ;  but  " — "  But  what  then,  ma  clierel" 

Said  Brown,  as  the  lady  came  to  a  full  stop, 

And  glanced  round  the  shelves  of  the  little  back  shop. 

"Well,  I  want — I  want  something  to  fill  out  the  skirt 

To  the  proper  dimensions,  without  being  girt 

In  a  stiff  crinoline,  or  caged  in  a  hoop 

That  shows  through  one's  skirt  like  the  bars  of  a  coop ; 

Something  light,  that  a  lady  may  waltz  in,  or  polk, 

With  a  freedom  that  none  but  you  masculine  folk 

Ever  know.     For,  however  poor  woman  aspires, 

She's  always  bound  down  to  the  earth  by  these  wires. 


Are  you  listening?     Nonsense  !  don't  stare  like  a  spoon, 

Idiotic ;  some  light  thing,  and  spacious,  and  soon — 

Something  like — well,  in  fact — something  like  a  balloon  !" 

Here  she  paused  ;  and  here  Brown,  overcome  by  surprise, 

Gave  a  doubting  assent  with  still  wondering  eyes, 

And  the  lady  departed.     But  just  at  the  door 

Something  happened, — 'tis  true,  it  had  happened  before 

In  this  sanctum  of  science, — a  sibilant  sound, 

Like  some  element  just  from  its  trammels  unbound, 

Or  two  substances  that  their  affinities  found. 

The  night  of  the  anxiously-looked-for  soiree 

Had  come,  with  its  fair  ones  in  gorgeous  array ; 

With  the  rattle  of  wheels  and  the  tinkle  of  bells, 

And  the  "  How  do  ye  do's,"  and  the  "  Hope  you  are  well's; " 

And  the  crush  in  the  passage,  and  last  lingering  look 

You  give  as  you  hang  your  best  hat  on  the  hook ; 

The  rush  of  hot  air  as  the  door  opens  wide ; 

And  your  entry, — that  blending  of  self-possessed  pride 


2 1 6  Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine. 

And  humility  shown  in  your  perfect-bred  stare 
At  the  folk,  as  if  wondering  how  they  got  there ; 
With  other  tricks  worthy  of  Vanity  Fair. 
Meanwhile  the  safe  topic,  the  heat  of  the  room, 
Already  was  loosing  its  freshness  and  bloom ; 
Young  people  were  yawning,  and  wondering  when 
The  dance  would  come  off,  and  why  didn't  it  then  : 
When  a  vague  expectation  was  thrilling  the  crowd, 
Lo  !  the  door  swung  its  hinges  with  utterance  proud ! 
And  Pompey  announced,  with  a  trumpet-like  strain, 
The  entrance  of  Brown  and  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 

She  entered ;  but  oh  !  how  imperfect  the  verb 
To  express  to  the  senses  her  movement  superb  ! 
To  say  that  she  "  sailed  in  "  more  clearly  might  tell 
Her  grace  in  its  buoyant  and  billowy  swell. 
Her  robe  was  a  vague  circumambient  space, 
With  shadowy  boundaries  made  of  point-lace. 
The  rest  was  but  guesswork,  and  well  might  defy 
The  power  of  critical  feminine  eye 
To  define  or  describe :  'twere  as  futile  to  try 
The  gossamer  web  of  the  cirrus  to  trace, 
Floating  far  in  the  blue  of  a  warm  summer  sky. 

'Midst  the  humming  of  praises  and  the  glances  of  beaux, 
That  greet  our  fair  maiden  wherever  she  goes, 
Brown  slipped  like  a  shadow,  grim,  silent,  and  black, 
With  a  look  of  anxiety,  close  in  her  track. 
Once  he  whispered  aside  in  her  delicate  ear 
A  sentence  of  warning, — it  might  be  of  fear : 
"  Don't  stand  in  a  draught,  if  you  value  your  life." 
(Nothing  more, — such  advice  might  be  given  your  wife 
Or  your  sweetheart,  in  times  of  bronchitis  and  cough, 
Without  mystery,  romance,  or  frivolous  scoff.) 


Aspiring  Miss  De  Lame.  217 

But  hark  to  the  music  :  the  dance  has  begun. 

The  closely-draped  windows  wide  open  are  flung ; 

The  notes  of  the  piccolo,  joyous  and  light, 

Like  bubbles  burst  forth  on  the  warm  summer  night. 

Roundabout  go  the  dancers  ;  in  circles  they  fly ; 

Trip,  trip,  go  their  feet  as  their  skirts  eddy  by ; 

And  swifter  and  lighter,  but  somewhat  too  plain, 

Whisks  the  fair  circumvolving  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 

Taglioni  and  Cerito  well  might  have  pined 

For  the  vigour  and  ease  that  her  movements  combined  ; 

E'en  Rigelboche  never  flung  higher  her  robe 

In  the  naughtiest  city  that's  known  on  the  globe. 

'Twas  amazing,  'twas  scandalous  :  lost  in  surprise, 

Some  opened  their  mouths,  and  a  few  shut  their  eyes. 

But  hark !     At  the  moment  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Circling  round  at  the  outer  edge  of  an  ellipse 
Which  brought  her  fair  form  to  the  window  again, 
From  the  arms  of  her  partner  incautiously  slips  ! 
A.nd  a  shriek  fills  the  air,  and  the  music  is  still, 
And  the  crowd  gather  round  where  her  partner  forlorn 
Still  frenziedly  points  from  the  wide  window-sill 
Into  space  and  the  night ;  for  Miss  Addie  was  gone  ! 
Gone  like  the  bubble  that  bursts  in  the  sun ; 
Gone  like  the  grain  when  the  reaper  is  done ; 
Gone  like  the  dew  on  the  fresh  morning  grass ; 
Gone  without  parting  farewell ;  and  alas  ! 
Gone  with  a  flavour  of  hydrogen  gas  ! 


When  the  weather  is  pleasant,  you  frequently  meet 
A  white-headed  man  slowly  pacing  the  street ; 
His  trembling  hand  shading  his  lack-lustre  eye, 
Half-blind  with  continually  scanning  the  sky. 


2 1 8  Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine. 

Rumour  points  him  as  some  astronomical  sage, 
Re-perusing  by  day  the  celestial  page ; 
But  the  reader,  sagacious,  will  recognise  Brown, 
Trying  vainly  to  conjure  his  lost  sweetheart  down, 
And  learn  the  stern  moral  this  story  must  teach, 
That  Genius  may  lift  its  love  out  of  its  reach. 


C     2I9 


a  Eegentj  of  Cologne. 

ABOVE  the  bones 
St.  Ursula  owns, 

And  those  of  the  virgins  she  chaperones  ; 
Above  the  boats, 
And  the  bridge  that  floats, 

And  the  Rhine  and  the  steamers'  smoky  throats  ; 
Above  the  chimneys  and  quaint-tiled  roofs, 
Above  the  clatter  of  wheels  and  hoofs  ; 
Above  Newmarket's  open  space, 
Above  that  consecrated  place 
Where  the  genuine  bones  of  the  Magi  seen  are, 
And  the  dozen  shops  of  the  real  Farina ; 
Higher  than  even  old  Hohestrasse, 
Whose  houses  threaten  the  timid  passer: 
Above  them  all, 
Through  scaffolds  tall 
And  spires  like  delicate  limbs  in  splinters, 
The  great  Cologne's 
Cathedral  stones 
Climb  through  the  storms  of  eight  hundred  winterat 

Unfinished  there, 
In  high  mid-air 
The  towers  halt  like  a  broken  prayer ; 


220  A  Legend  of  Cologne. 

Through  years  belated, 

Unconsummated, 
The  hope  of  its  architect  quite  frustrated. 

Its  very  youth 

They  say,  forsooth, 
With  a  quite  improper  purpose  mated  \ 

And  every  stone 

With  a  curse  of  its  own 
Instead  of  that  sermon  Skakespeare  stated, 

Since  the  day  its  choir, 

Which  all  admire, 
By  Cologne's  Archbishop  was  consecrated 

Ah  !  that  was  a  day, 

One  well  might  say, 

To  be  marked  with  the  largest,  whitest  stone 
To  be  found  in  the  towers  of  all  Cologne  ! 

Along  the  Rhine, 

From  old  Rheinstein, 
The  people  flowed  like  their  own  good  wine. 

From  Rudesheim, 

And  Geisenheim, 

And  every  spot  that  is  known  to  rhyme ; 
From  the  famed  Cat's  Castle  of  St.  Goarshausen, 
To  the  pictured  roofs  of  Assmannshausen, 

And  down  the  track, 

From  quaint  Schwalbach 
To  the  clustering  tiles  of  Bacharach; 

From  Bingen,  hence 

To  old  Coblentz  : 
From  every  castellated  crag, 
Where  the  robber  chieftains  kept  their  "swag,* 
The  folk  flowed  in,  and  Ober-Cassel 
Shone  with  the  pomp  of  knight  and  vassal ; 


A  Legend  of  Cologne.  221 

And  pouring  in  from  near  and  far, 
As  the  Rhine  to  its  bosom  draws  the  Ahr, 
Or  takes  the  arm  of  the  sober  Mosel, 
So  in  Cologne,  knight,  squire,  and  losel, 
Choked  up  the  city's  gates  with  men 
From  old  St.  Stephen  to  Zint  Mdrjen. 

What  had  they  come  to  see  ?    Ah  me ! 
I  fear  no  glitter  of  pageantry, 

Nor  sacred  zeal 

For  Church's  weal, 
Nor  faith  in  the  virgins'  bones  to  heal ; 

Nor  childlike  trust  in  frank  confession 
Drew  these,  who,  dyed  in  deep  transgression, 

Still  in  each  nest 

On  every  crest 
Kept  stolen  goods  in  their  possession ; 

But  only  their  gout 

For  something  new, 
More  rare  than  the  "  roast "  of  a  wandering  Jew  ; 

Or — to  be  exact — 

To  see — in  fact — 
A  Christian  soul,  in  the  very  act 
Of  being  damned,  secundum  artem, 
By  the  devil,  before  a  soul  could  part  'em. 

For  a  rumour  had  flown 
Throughout  Cologne, 

That  the  church,  in  fact,  was  the  devil's  own ; 
That  its  architect 
(Being  long  "  suspect ") 

Had  confessed  to  the  bishop  that  he  had  wreckt 
Not  only  his  own  soul,  but  had  lost 
The  very  first  Christian  soul  that  crossed 


222  A  Legend  of  Cologne. 

The  sacred  threshold ;  and  all,  in  fine, 
For  that  very  beautiful  design 
Of  the  wonderful  choir 
They  were  pleased  to  admire. 
And  really,  he  must  be  allowed  to  say- 
To  speak  in  a  purely  business  way — 
That,  taking  the  ruling  market  prices 
Of  souls  and  churches,  in  such  a  crisis 
It  would  be  shown — 
And  his  Grace  must  own — 
It  was  really  a  bargain  for  Cologne ! 

Such  was  the  tale 

That  turned  cheeks  pale 
With  the  thought  that  the  enemy  might  prevail, 

And  the  church  doors  snap 

With  a  thunder-clap 
On  a  Christian  soul  in  that  devil's  trap. 

But  a  wiser  few, 

Who  thought  that  they  knew 
Cologne's  Archbishop,  replied,  "  Pooh,  pooh  ! 

Just  watch  him  and  wait, 

And  as  sure  as  fate, 
You'll  find  that  the  Bishop  will  give  checkmate." 

One  here  might  note 

How  the  popular  vote, 
As  shown  in  all  legends  and  anecdote, 

Declares  that  a  breach 

Of  trust  to  o'erreach 
The  devil  is  something  quite  proper  for  each. 

And,  really,  if  you 

Give  the  devil  his  due 
In  spite  of  the  proverb — it's  something  you'll  rue. 


A  Legend  of  Cologne.  223 

But  to  lie  and  deceive  him, 

To  use  and  to  leave  him, 
From  Job  up  to  Faust  is  the  way  to  receive  him, 

Though  no  one  has  heard 

It  ever  averred 
That  the  "  Father  of  Lies  "  ever  yet  broke  his  word,  - 

But  has  left  this  position, 

In  every  tradition, 
To  be  taken  alone  by  the  "  truth-loving  "  Christian  I 

Bom  !  from  the  tower  ! 

It  is  the  hour  ! 
The  host  pours  in,  in  its  pomp  and  power 

Of  banners  and  pyx, 

And  high  crucifix, 
And  crosiers  and  other  processional  sticks, 

And  no  end  of  Marys 

In  quaint  reliquaries ; 
To  gladden  the  souls  of  all  true  antiquaries ; 

And  an  Osculum  Pads — 

(A  myth  to  the  masses 
Who  trusted  their  bones  more  to  mail  and  cuirasses), 

All  borne  by  the  throng 

Who  are  marching  along 
To  the  square  of  the  Dom  with  processional  song, 

With  the  flaring  of  dips, 

And  bending  of  hips, 
And  the  chanting  of  hundred  perfunctory  lips ; 

And  some  good  little  boys 

Who  had  come  up  from  Neuss 
And  the  Quirinuskirche  to  show  off  their  voice : 

All  march  to  the  square 

Of  the  great  Dom,  and  there 
File  right  and  left,  leaving  alone  and  quite  bare 


224  A  Legend  of  Cologne. 

A  covered  sedan, 
Containing — so  ran 
The  rumour — the  victim  to  take  off  the  ban. 


They  have  left  it  alone, 

They  have  sprinkled  each  stone 
Of  the  porch  with  a  sanctified  Eau  de  Cologne* 

Guarar^eed  in  this  case 

To  disguise  every  trace 
Of  a  sulphurous  presence  in  that  sacred  place. 

Two  Carmelites  stand 

On  the  right  and  left  hand  * 
Of  the  covered  sedan  chair,  to  wait  the  command 

Of  the  prelate  to  throw 

Up  the  cover  and  show 
The  form  of  the  victim  in  terror  below. 

There's  a  pause  and  a  prayer, 

Then  the  signal,  and  there — 
Is  a  woman  / — by  all  that  is  good  and  is  fair ! 


A  woman  !  and  known 

To  them  all — one  must  own 

Too  well  known  to  the  many,  to-day  to  be  shown 
As  a  martyr,  or  e'en 
As  a  Christian  !     A  queen 

Of  pleasaunce  and  revel,  of  glitter  and  sheen ; 
So  bad  that  the  worst 
Of  Cologne  spake  up  first, 

And  declared  'twas  an  outrage  to  suffer  one  curst, 
And  already  a  fief 
Of  the  Satanic  chief, 

To  martyr  herself  for  the  Church's  relief. 


A  Legend  of  Cologne.  225 

But  in  vain  fell  their  sneer 
On  the  mob,  who  I  fear 
On  the  whole  felt  a  strong  disposition  to  cheer. 

A  woman  !  and  there 

She  stands  in  the  glare 
Of  the  pitiless  sun  and  their  pitying  stare — 

A  woman  still  young, 

With  garments  that  cl^m-! 
To  a  figure,  though  wasted  with  passion  and  wrung 

With  remorse  and  despair, 

Yet  still  passing  fair, 
\  jewels  and  gold  in  her  dark  shining  hair, 

And  cheMs  that  are  faint 
.  ,     ''Neath  her  dyes  and  her  paint — 
A  woman  most  surely — but  hardly  a  saint ! 

She  moves.     She  has  gone 

From  their  pity  and  scorn ; 

She  has  mounted  alone 

The  first  step  of  stone, 
And  the  high  swinging  doors  she  wide  open  has  thrown, 

Then  pauses  and  turns, 

As  the  altar  blaze  burns 
On  her  cheeks,  and  with  one  sudden  gesture  she  spurns 

Archbishop  and  Prior, 

Knight,  ladye,  and  friar, 
And  her  voice  rings  out  high  from  the  vault  of  the  choir 

"  Oh,  men  of  Cologne  ! 
What  I  was  ye  have  known  ; 
What  I  am,  as  I  stand  here,  One  knoweth  alone. 
If  it  be  but  His  will 
I  shall  pass  from  Him  stilj, 
VOL.  i.  P 


226  A  Legend  of  Cologne. 

Lost,  curst,  and  degraded,  I  reckon  no  ill ; 

If  still  by  that  sign 

Of  His  anger  divine 
One  soul  shall  be  saved,  He  hath  blessed  more  than  mine. 

Oh,  men  of  Cologne  ! 

Stand  forth  if  ye  own 
A  faith  like  to  this,  or  more  fit  to  atone, 

And  take  ye  my  place, 

And  Go$  give  you  grace 
To  stand  and  confront  Him,  like  me,  face  to  face  ! " 

She  paused.     Yet  aloof 

They  all  stand.     No  reproof 
Breaks  the  silence  that  fills  the  celestial  roof. 

One  instant — no  more — 

She  halts  at  the  door, 
Then  enters  !  .  .  .  A  flood  from  the  roof  to  the  floor 

Fills  the  church  rosy  red. 

She  is  gone ! 

But  instead, 
Who  is  this  leaning  forward  with  glorified  head 

And  hands  stretched  to  save  ? 

Sure  this  is  no  slave 
Of  the  Powers  of  Darkness,  with  aspect  so  brave  I 

They  press  to  the  door, 

But  too  late  !     All  is  o'er. 
Nought  remains  but  a  woman's  form  prone  on  the  floor. 

But  they  still  see  a  trace 

Of  that  glow  in  her  face 
That  they  saw  in  the  light  of  the  altar's  high  blaze 

On  the  image  that  stands 

With  the  babe  in  its  hands 
Enshrined  in  the  churches  of  all  Christian  lands. 


A  Legend  of  Cologne.  227 

A  Te  Deum  sung, 

A  censer  high  swung, 
With  praise,  benediction,  and  incense  wide-flung, 

Proclaim  that  the  curse 

Is  removed — and  no  worse 
Is  the  Dom  for  the  trial — in  fact,  the  reverse; 

For  instead  of  their  losing 

A  soul  in  abusing 
The  Evil  One's  faith,  they  gained  one  of  his  choosing. 

Thus  the  legend  is  told  : 

You  will  find  in  the  old 
Vaulted  aisles  of  the  Dom,  stiff  in  marble  or  cold 

In  iron  and  brass, 

In  gown  and  cuirass, 
The  knights,  priests,  and  bishops  who  came  to  that  Mass ; 

And  high  o'er  the  rest, 

With  her  babe  at  her  breast, 
The  image  of  Mary  Madonna  the  blest. 

But  you  look  round  in  vain, 

On  each  high  pictured  pane, 
For  the  woman  most  worthy  to  walk  in  her  train. 

Yet,  standing  to-day 

O'er  the  dust  and  the  clay, 
'Midst  the  ghosts  of  a  life  that  has  long  passed  away, 

With  the  slow-sinking  sun 

Looking  softly  upon 
That  stained-glass  procession,  I  scarce  miss  the  one 

That  it  'does  not  reveal, 

For  I  know  and  I  feel 
That  these  are  but  shadows — the  woman  was  real ! 


228       ) 


Cfje  Cafe  of  a 


NAME  of  my  heroine,  simply  "  Rose  ;  * 
Surname,  tolerable  only  in  prose  ; 
Habitat,  Paris,  —  that  is  where 
She  resided  for  change^  air  ; 
ALtat.  twenty;  compfexion  fair, 
Rich,  good-looking,  and  debonnaire, 
Smarter  than  Jersey-lightning  —  There  V 
That's  her  photograph,  done  with  care. 


In  Paris,  whatever  they  do  besides, 
EVERY  LADY  IN  FULL  DRESS  RIDES  ! 
Moire  antiques  you  never  meet 
Sweeping  the  filth  of  a  dirty  street ; 
But  every  woman's  claim  to  ton 

Depends  upon 

The  team  she  drives,  whether  phaeton, 
Landau,  or  britzka.     Hence  it's  plain 
That  Rose,  who  was  of  her  toilet  vain, 
Should  have  a  team  that  ought  to  be 
Equal  to  any  in  all  Paris  I 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse !  "     The  commissaire 
Bowed,  and  brought  Miss  Rose  a  pair 
Leading  an  equipage  rich  and  rare. 
Why  doth  that  lovely  lady  stare  ? 


The  Tale  of  a  Pony.  229 

Why  ?     The  tail  of  the  off  grey  mare 
Is  bobbed,  by  all  that's  good  and  fair : 
Like  the  shaving-brushes  that  soldiers  wear, 
Scarcely  showing  as  much  back-hair 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  "  Meg," — and  there, 
Lord  knows,  she'd  little  enough  to  spare. 

That  stare  and  frown  the  Frenchman  knew, 

But  did  as  \\  ell-bred  Frenchmen  do  : 

Raised  his  shoulders  above  his  crown, 

Joined  his  thumbs  with  the  fingers  down, 

And  said,  "Ah  Heaven  !"— then,  "  Mademoiselle 

Delay  one  minute,  and  all  is  well ! " 

He  went — returned ;  by  what  good  chance 

These  things  are  managed  so  well  in  France 

I  cannot  say, — but  he  made  the  sale 

And  the  bob -tailed  mare  had  a  flowing  tail. 

All  that  is  false  in  this  world  below 

Betrays  itself  in  a  love  of  show ; 

Indignant  Nature  hides  her  lash 

In  the  purple:black  of  a  dyed  mustache ; 

The  shallowest  fop  will  trip  in  French, 

The  would-be  critic  will  misquote  Trench ; 

In  short,  you're  always  sure  to  detect 

A  sham  in  the  things  folks  most  affect; 

Bean-pods  are  noisiest  when  dry, 

And  you  always  wink  with  your  weakest  eye  : 

And  that's  the  reason  the  old  grey  mare 

Forever  had  her  tail  in  the  air, 

With  flourishes  beyond  compare, 

Though  every  whisk 

Incurred  the  risk 
Of  leaving  that  sensitive  region  bare,— 


230  The  Tale  of  a  Pony. 

She  did  some  things  that  you  couldn't  but  feel 
She  wouldn't  have  done  had  her  tail  been  real. 


Champs  Elyse*es  :  Time,  past  five ; 
There  go  the  carriages, — look  alive  ! 
Everything  that  man  can  drive, 
Or  his  inventive  skill  contrive, — 
Yankee  buggy  or  English  "  chay," 
Dog-cart,  droschky,  and  smart  coup6, 
A  desobligeante  quite  bulky 
(French  idea  of  a  Yankee  sulky)  \ 
Band  in  the  distance  playing  a  march, 
Footmen  standing  stiff  as  starch  ; 
Savans,  lorettes,  deputies,  Arch- 
Bishops,  and  there  together  range 
iStf^r-lieutenants  and  ^^/-gardes  (strange 
Way  these  soldier-chaps  make  change), 
Mixed  with  black-eyed  Polish  dames, 
With  unpronounceable  awful  names  ; 
Laces  tremble  and  ribbons  flout, 
Coachmen  wrangle  and  gendarmes  shout,— 
Bless  us  !  what  is  the  row  about  ? 
Ah  !  here  comes  Rosy's  new  turn-out ! 
Smart !     You  bet  your  life  'twas  that ! 
Nifty  !  (short  for  magnificat). 
Mulberry  panels, — heraldic  spread, — 
Ebony  wheels  picked  out  with  red, 
And  two  grey  mares  that  were  thorough-bred ; 
No  wonder  that  every  dandy's  head 
Was  turned  by  the  turn-out, — and  'twas  said 
That  Caskowhisky  (friend  of  the  Czar), 
A  very  good  whip  (as  Russians  are), 
Was  tied  to  Rosy's  triumphal  car, 


The  Tale  of  a  Pony.  231 

Entranced,  the  reader  will  understand, 

By  "  ribbons  "  that  graced  her  head  and  hand. 


Alas  !  the  hour  you  think  would  crown 

Your  highest  wishes  should  let  you  down  ! 

Or  Fate  should  turn,  by  your  own  mischance, 

Your  victor's  car  to  an  ambulance ; 

From  cloudless  heavens  her  lightnings  glance, 

(And  these  things  happen,  even  in  France). 

And  so  Miss  Rose,  as  she  trotted  by, 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye, — 

Saw  to  her  horror  the  off  mare  shy, — 

Flourish  her  tail  so  exceedingly  high 

That,  disregarding  the  closest  tie, 

And  without  giving  a  reason  why, 

She  flung  that  tail  so  free  and  frisky 

Off  in  the  face  of  Caskowhisky. 

Excuses,  blushes,  smiles  :  in  fine, 
End  of  the  pony's  tail,  and  mine  1 


£Dn  a  Cone  of  tfje  "Big  €ree& 

(SEQUOIA  GIGANTEA.) 

BROWN  foundling  of  the  Western  wood, 

Babe  of  primeval  wildernesses  ! 
Long  on  my  table  thou  hast  stood 

Encounters  strange  and  rude  caresses ; 
Perchance  contented  with  thy  lot, 

Surroundings  new  and  curious  faces, 
As  though  ten  centuries  were  not 

Imprisoned  in  thy  shining  cases. 

Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  halcyon  days 

Of  grateful  rest,  the  week  of  leisure, 
The  journey  lapped  in  autumn  haze, 

The  sweet  fatigue  that  seemed  a  pleasure, 
The  morning  ride,  the  noonday  halt, 

The  blazing  slopes,  the  red  dust  rising, 
And  then  the  dim,  brown,  columned  vault, 

With  its  cool,  damp,  sepulchral  spicing. 

Once  more  I  see  the  rocking  masts 
That  scrape  the  sky,  their  only  tenant 

The  jay-bird,  that  in  frolic  casts 

From  some  high  yard  his  broad  blue  pennant. 


On  a  Cone  of  the  Big  Trees.  233 

I  see  the  Indian  files  that  keep 

Their  places  in  the  dusty  heather, 
Their  red  trunks  standing  ankle-deep 

In  moccasins  of  rusty  leather. 


I  see  all  this,  and  marvel  much 

That  thou,  sweet  woodland  waif,  art  able 
To  keep  the  company  of  such 

As  throng  thy  friend's — the  poet's — table  : 
The  latest  spawn  the  press  hath  cast, — 

The  "  modern  Pope's  "  "  the  later  Byron's,"- 
Why  e'en  the  best  may  not  outlast 

Thy  poor  relation, — Sempervirens, 


Thy  sire  saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mohammed's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 

And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present  \ 
He  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 

And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches ; 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 

The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches. 


And  must  thou,  foundling,  still  forego 

Thy  heritage  and  high  ambition, 
To  lie  full  lowly  and  full  low, 

Adjusted  to  thy  new  condition  ? 
Not  hidden  in  the  drifted  snows, 

But  under  ink-drops  idly  spattered, 
And  leaves  ephemeral  as  those 

That  on  thy  wooldand  tomb  were  scattered  ? 


234  On  a  Cone  of  the  Big  Trees. 

Yet  lie  thou  there,  O  friend  !  and  speak 

The  moral  of  thy  simple  story  : 
Though  life  is  all  that  thou  dost  seek, 

And  age  alone  thy  crown  of  glory, — 
Not  thine  the  only  germs  that  fail 

The  purpose  of  their  high  creation, 
If  their  poor  tenements  avail 

For  worldly  show  and  ostentation. 


Hone  fountain, 

(CEMETERY,  SAN  FRANCISCO.) 

THIS  is  that  hill  of  awe 
That  Persian  Sindbad  saw, — 

The  mount  magnetic ; 
And  on  its  seaward  face, 
Scattered  along  its  base, 

The  wrecks  prophetic 


Here  come  the  argosies 
Blown  by  each  idle  breeze, 

To  and  fro  shifting ; 
Yet  to  the  hill  of  Fate 
All  drawing,  soon  or  late, — 

Day  by  day  drifting ; — 


Drifting  forever  here 
Barks  that  for  many  a  year 

Braved  wind  and  weather ; 
Shallops  but  yesterday 
Launched  on  yon  shining  bay, — • 

Drawn  all  together. 


236  Lone  Mountain. 

This  is  the  end  of  all : 
Sun  thyself  by  the  wall, 

O  poorer  Hindbad  ! 
Envy  not  Sindbad's  fame  : 
Here  come  alike  the  same 

Hindbad  and  SindbadL 


237 


HERE'S  yer  toy  balloons  !    All  sizes ! 
Twenty  cents  for  that.     It  rises 
Jest  as  quick  as  that  'ere,  Miss, 
Twice  as  big.     Ye  see  it  is 
Some  more  fancy.     Make  it  square 
Fifty  for  'em  both.     That's  fair. 


That's  the  sixth  I've  sold  since  noon. 
Trade's  reviving.     Just  as  soon 
As  this  lot's  worked  off,  I'll  take 
Wholesale  riggers.     Make  or  break, 
That's  my  motto  !     Then  I'll  buy 
In  some  first-class  lottery 
One  half  ticket,  numbered  right — 
As  I  dreamed  about  last  night 


That'll  fetch  it.     Don't  tell  me  I 
When  a  man's  in  luck,  you  see, 
All  things  help  him.     Every  chance 
Hits  him  like  an  avalanche. 
Here's  your  toy  balloons,  Miss.     Eh  ? 
You  won't  turn  your  face  this  way  ? 
Mebbe  you'll  be  glad  some  day 


238  Alnaschar. 

With  that  clear  ten  thousand  prize 
This  'yer  trade  I'll  drop,  and  rise 
Into  wholesale.     No  !     I'll  take 
Stocks  in  Wall  Street     Make  or  break, 
That's  my  motto  !     With  my  luck, 
Where's  the  chance  of  being  stuck  ? 
Call  it  sixty  thousand,  clear, 
Made  in  Wall  Street  in  one  year. 

Sixty  thousand  !     Umph  !     Let's  see  ! 
Bond  and  mortgage'll  do  for  me. 
Good  !     That  gal  that  passed  me  by 
Scornful  like — why,  mebbe  I 
Some  da/11  hold  in  pawn — why  not  ? 
All  her  father's  prop.     Shell  spot 
What's  my  little  game,  and  see 
What  I'm  after's  htr.     He  !  he  ! 

He  !  he  !    When  she  comes  to  sue — 
Let's  see !     What's  the  thing  to  do  ? 
Kick  her  ?    No  !     There's  the  perliss  ! 
Sorter  throw  her  off  like  this. 
Hello!     Stop!    Help!     Murder!    Hey! 
There's  my  whole  stock  got  away, 
Kiting  on  the  house-tops  !     Lost ! 
All  a  poor  man's  fortin  !     Cost  ? 
Twenty  dollars !     Eh  !    What's  this  ? 
Fifty  cents  1    God  bless  ye,  Miss  I 


239 


Cfje  Ctoo  ©fnpfc 

As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest, 

Looking  over  the  ultimate  sea ; 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lea : 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback, — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me  ! 

But  lo  !  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away, 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see ; 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee. 
So  I  think  of  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore, 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


(    240    ) 


(OPENING  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  THEATRE,  SAN  FRANCISCO, 
JANUARY  19,  1870). 

BRIEF  words,  when  actions  wait,  are  well : 
The  prompter's  hand  is  on  his  bell ; 
The  coming  heroes,  lovers,  kings, 
Are  idly  lounging  at  the  wings ; 
Behind  the  curtain's  mystic  fold 
The  glowing  future  lies  unrolled, — 
And  yet,  one  moment  for  the  Past ; 
One  retrospect, — the  first  and  last. 

"The  world's  a  stage,"  the  Master  said. 
To-night  a  mightier  truth  is  read  : 
Not  in  the  shifting  canvas  screen, 
The  flash  of  gas  or  tinsel  sheen  ; 
Not  in  the  skill  whose  signal  calls 
From  empty  boards  baronial  halls ; 
But,  fronting  sea  and  curving  bay, 
Behold  the  players  and  the  play. 

Ah,  friends  !  beneath  your  real  skies 
The  actor's  short-lived  triumph  dies : 
On  that  broad  stage  of  empire  won, 
Whose  footlights  were  the  setting  sun. 


Address.  241 

Whose  flats  a  distant  background  rose 
In  trackless  peaks  of  endless  snows ; 
Here  genius  bows,  and  talent  waits 
To  copy  that  but  One  creates. 

Your  shifting  scenes  :  the  league  of  sand, 

An  avenue  by  ocean  spanned  ; 

The  narrow  beach  of  straggling  tents, 

A  mile  of  stately  monuments  ; 

Your  standard,  lo  !  a  flag  unfurled, 

Whose  clinging  folds  clasp  half  the  world,-— 

This  is  your  drama,  built  on  facts, 

With  "  twenty  years  between  the  acts." 

One  moment  more :  if  here  we  raise 
The  oft-sung  hymn  of  local  praise, 
Before  the  curtain  facts  must  sway : 
Here  waits  the  moral  of  your  play. 
Glassed  in  the  poet's  thought,  you  view 
What  money  can  yet  cannot  do ; 
The  faith  that  soars,  the  deeds  that  shine, 
Above  the  gold  that  builds  the  shrine. 

And  oh  !  when  others  take  our  place, 
And  Earth's  green  curtain  hides  our  face, 
Ere  on  the  stage,  so  silent  now, 
The  last  new  hero  makes  his  bow  : 
So  may  our  deeds,  recalled  once  more 
In  Memory's  sweet  but  brief  encore, 
Down  all  the  circling  ages  run, 
With  the  world's  plaudit  of  "Well  done ! " 


VOL.  I. 


(       242       ) 


DEAR  DOLLY  !  who  does  not  recall 
The  thrilling  page  that  pictured  all 
Those  charms  that  held  our  sense  in  thralL 

Just  as  the  artist  caught  her — 
As  down  that  English  lane  she  tripped, 
In  bowered  chintz,  hat  sideways  tipped, 
Trim-bodiced,  bright-eyed,  roguish-lipped — 

The  locksmith's  pretty  daughter  ? 

Sweet  fragment  of  the  Master's  art ! 
O  simple  faith  !  O  rustic  heart ! 
O  maid  that  hath  no  counterpart 

In  life's  dry,  dog-eared  pages  ! 
Where  shall  we  find  thy  like  ?     Ah,  stay ! 
Methinks  I  saw  her  yesterday 
In  chintz  that  flowered,  as  one  might  say, 

Perennial  for  ages. 

Her  father's  modest  cot  was  stone, 
Five  stories  high ;  in  style  and  tone 
Composite,  and,  I  frankly  own, 

Within  its  walls  revealing 
Some  certain  novel,  strange  ideas : 
A  Gothic  door  with  Roman  piers, 
And  floors  removed  some  thousand  years 

From  their  Pompeiian  ceiling. 


Dolly  Varden.  243 

The  small  salon  where  she  received 
Was  Louis  Quatorze,  and  relieved 
By  Chinese  cabinets,  conceived 

Grotesquely  by  the  heathen ; 
The  sofas  were  a  classic  sight — 
The  Roman  bench  (sedilia  hight) ; 
The  chairs  were  French  in  gold  and  white, 

And  one  Elizabethan. 

And  she,  the  goddess  of  that  shrine, 
Two  ringed  fingers  placed  in  mine — 
The  stones  were  many  carats  fine, 

And  of  the  purest  water — 
Then  dropped  a  curtesy,  far  enough 
To  fairly  fill  her  cretonne  puff 
And  show  the  petticoat's  rich  stuff 

That  her  fond  parent  bought  her. 

Her  speech  was  simple  as  her  dress — 
Not  French  the  more,  but  English  less, 
She  loved ;  yet  sometimes,  I  confess, 

I  scarce  could  comprehend  her. 
Her  manners  were  quite  far  from  shy  : 
There  was  a  quiet  in  her  eye 
Appalling  to  the  Hugh  who'd  try 

With  rudeness  to  offend  her. 

"But  whence,"  I  cried,  "this  masquerade? 
Some  figure  for  to-night's  charade — 
A  Watteau  shepherdess  or  maid  ?  " 

She  smiled  and  begged  my  pardon  : 
"Why,  surely  you  must  know  the  name — 
That  woman  who  was  Shakespeare's  flame 
Or  Byron's — well,  it's  all  the  same  : 

Why,  Lord  !  I'm  Dolly  Varden  I" 


244 


Celemacfwfit 


DON'T  mind  me,  I  beg  you,  old  fellow,  —  I'll  do  very  well 

here  alone  ; 
You  must  not  be  kept  from  your  "  German  "  because  I've 

dropped  in  like  a  stone  : 
Leave  all  ceremony  behind  you,  leave  all  thought  of  aught 

but  yourself; 
And  leave,  if  you  like,  the  Madeira,  and  a  dozen  cigars  on 

the  shelf. 

As  for  me,  you  will  say  to  your  hostess  —  well,  I  scarcely 

need  give  you  a  cue. 
Chant  my  praise  !     All  will  list  to  Apollo,  though  Mercury 

pipe  to  a  few. 
Say  just  what  you  please,  my  dear   boy  ;    there's   more 

eloquence  lies  in  youth's  rash 
Outspoken   heart-impulse   than   ever  growled    under  this 

grizzling  mustache. 

Go,  don  the  dress  coat  of  our  tyrant  —  youth's  panoplied 

armour  for  fight, 
And  tie  the  white  neckcloth  that  rumples,  like  pleasure,  and 

lasts  but  a  night. 
And  pray  the  Nine  Gods  to  avert  you  what  time  the  Three 

Sisters  shall  frown, 
And  you'll  lose  your  high-comedy  figure,  and  sit  more  ai 

ease  in  your  gown 


Telemachus  versus  Mentor.  245 

He's  off !    There's  his  foot  on  the  staircase.    By  Jove  what 

a  bound  !     Really  now 
Did  /  ever  leap  like  this  springald,  with  Love's  chaplet 

green  on  my  brow  ? 
Was  /  such  an  ass  ?    No,  I  fancy.     Indeed  I  remember 

quite  plain 
A  gravity  mixed  with  my  transports,  a  cheerfulness  softened 

my  pain.  ' 


He's  gone !     There's  the  slam  of  his  cab  door,  there's  the 

clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  wheels  ; 
And  while  he  the  light  toe  is  tripping  in  this  arm-chair  I'll 

tilt  up  my  heels. 
He's  gone,  and  for  what  ?     For  a  tremor  from  a  waist  like 

a  teetotum  spun ; 
For  a  rosebud  that's  crumpled  by  many  before  it  is  gathered 

by  one. 


Is  there  naught  in  the  halo  of  youth  but  the  glow  of  a 

passionate  race — 
'Midst  the  cheers  and  applause  of  a  crowd — to  the  goal 

of  a  beautiful  face  ? 
A  race  that  is  not  to  the  swift,  a  prize  that  no   merits 

enforce, 
But  is  won  by  some  faineant  youth,  who  shall  simply  walk 

over  the  course  ? 


Poor  boy  !  shall  I  shock  his  conceit  ?    When  he  talks  of  her 

cheek's  loveliness, 
Shall  I  say  'twas  the  air  of  the  room,  and  was  due  to  carbonic 

excess  ? 


246  Telemachus  versus  Mentor. 

That  when  waltzing  she  drooped  on  his  breast,  and  the 

veins  of  her  eyelids  grew  dim, 
'Twas  oxygen's  absence  she  felt,  but  never  the  presence  of 

him? 


Shall   I   tell  him  first  love  is  a  fraud,  a  weakling  that's 

strangled  in  birth, 
Recalled  with  perfunctory  tears,  but  lost  in  unsanctified 

mirth  ? 
Or  shall  I  go  bid  him  believe  in  all  womankind's  charm, 

and  forget 
In  the  light  ringing  laugh  of  the  world  the  rattlesnake's  gay 

Castanet  ? 


Shall  I  tear  out  a  leaf  from  my  heart,  from  that  book  that 

forever  is  shut 
On  the  past  ?     Shall  I  speak  of  my  first  love — Augusta — 

my  Lalage  ?     But 
I  forget.     Was  it  really  Augusta  ?    No.    'Twas  Lucy  !    No. 

Mary !     No.     Di  ! 
Never  mind  !  they  were  all  first  and  faithless,  and  yet — I've 

forgotten  just  why. 


No,  no  !     Let  him  dream  on   and  ever.     Alas  !   he  will 

waken  too  soon  ; 
And  it  doesn't  look  well  for  October  to  always  be  preaching 

at  June, 
Poor  boy  !     All  his  fond  foolish  trophies  pinned  yonder — a 

bow  from  her  hair, 
A  few  billets-doux,  invitations,  and — what's  this  ?    My  name, 

I  declare  ! 


Telemachus  versus  Mentor.  247 

Humph  !     "  You'll  come,  for  I've  got  you  a  prize,  with 

beauty  and  money  no  end  ; 
You  know  her,  I  think ;  'twas  on  dit  she  once  was  engaged 

to  your  friend  ; 
But  she  says  that's  all  over."      Ah,  is  it?     Sweet  Ethel  ! 

incomparable  maid  ! 
Or — what  if  the  thing  were  a  trick  ? — this  letter  so  freely 

displayed ! — 

My  opportune  presence  !     No  !  nonsense  !     Will  nobody 

answer  the  bell? 
Call   a   cab!     Half  past   ten.      Not   too   late   yet.      Oh, 

Ethel !     Why  don't  you  go  !    Well  ? 
"  Master   said  you  would  wait — "      Hang   your  master ! 

"  Have  I  ever  a  message  to  send  ?  " 
Yes,  tell  him  I've  gone  to  the  German  to  dance  with  the 

friend  of  his  friend 


GBlmt  t&e  auolf  realty  #aiti  to  Little 


WONDERING  maiden,  so  puzzled  and  fair, 
Why  dost  thou  murmur  and  ponder  and  stare  ? 
"  Why  are  my  eyelids  so  open  and  wild  ?  " — 
Only  the  better  to  see  with,  my  child ! 
Only  the  better  and  clearer  to  view 
Cheeks  that  are  rosy  and  eyes  that  are  blue. 

Dost  thou  still  wonder,  and  ask  why  these  arms 
Fill  thy  soft  bosom  with  tender  alarms, 
Swaying  so  wickedly  ? — are  they  misplaced 
Clasping  or  shielding  some  delicate  waist : 
Hands  whose  coarse  sinews  may  fill  you  with  fear 
Only  the  better  protect  you,  my  dear ! 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  when  in  the  street, 
Why  do  I  press  your  small  hand  when  we  meet  ? 
Why,  when  you  timidly  offered  your  cheek, 
Why  did  I  sigh,  and  why  didn't  I  speak  ? 
Why,  well :  you  see — if  the  truth  must  appear — 
I'm  not  your  grandmother,  Riding-Hood,  dear  1 


249 


fcefore  Supper, 


"  So  she's  here,  your  unknown  Dulcinea  —  the  lady  you  met 

on  the  train  — 
And  you  really  believe  she  would  know  you  if  you  were  to 

meet  her  again  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  "  she  would  know  me  ;  there  never 

was  womankind  yet 
Forgot  the  effect  she  inspired.     She  excuses,  but  does  not 

forget." 

"  Then  you  told  her  your  love  ?  "  asked  the  elder  ;  the 

younger  looked  up  with  a  smile  : 
"  I  sat  by  her  side  half  an  hour  —  what  else  was  I  doing  the 

while  ? 

"  What,  sit  by  the  side  of  a  woman  as  fair  as  the  sun  in  the 

sky, 
And  look  somewhere  else  lest  the  dazzle  flash  back  from 

your  own  to  her  eye  ? 

"  No,  I  hold  that  the  speech  of  the  tongue  be  as  frank  and 

as  bold  as  the  look, 
And  I  held  up  herself  to  herself,  —  that  was  more  than  she 

got  from  her  book." 


250          Half-an-Hour  before  Supper. 

"Young  blood!"  laughed  the  elder;  "no  doubt  you  are 

voicing  the  mode  of  To-Day  : 
But  then  we  old  fogies  at  least  gave  the  lady  some  chance 

for  delay. 


"  There's  my  wife — (you  must  know) — we  first  met  on  the 

journey  from  Florence  to  Rome  : 
It  took  me  three  weeks  to  discover  who  was  she  and  where 

was  her  home ; 


"  Three  more  to  be  duly  presented ;  three  more  ere  I  saw 

her  again  ; 
And  a  year  ere  my  romance  began  where  yours  ended  that 

day  on  the  train." 


"  Oh,  that  was  the  style  of  the  stage-coach  ;  we  travel  to-day 

by  express ; 
Forty  miles  to  the  hour,"  he  answered,  "  won't  admit  of  a 

passion  that's  less." 


"  But  what  if  you  make  a  mistake  ?  "  quoth  the  elder.     The 

younger  half  sighed : 
"What    happens    when    signals    are    wrong   or    switches 

misplaced  ?  "  he  replied 


"Very  well,  I  must  bow  to  your  wisdom,"  the  elder  returned, 

"  but  submit 
Your  chances  of  winning  this  woman  your  boldness  has 

bettered  no  whit 


Half-an-Hour  before  Supper.          251 

"  Why,  you  do  not  at  best  know  her  name.     And  what  if  I 

try  your  ideal 
With  something,  if  not  quite  so  fair,  at  least  more  en  rlgk 

and  real  ? 

"  Let  me  find  you  a  partner.     Nay,  come,  I  insist — you 

shall  follow — this  way. 
My  dear,  will  you  not  add  your  grace  to  entreat  Mr.  Rapid 

to  stay  ? 

"  My  wife,  Mr.  Rapid — Eh,  what !     Why,  he's  gone — yet  he 

said  he  would  come. 
How  rude !    I  don't  wonder,  my  dear,  you  are  properly 

crimson  and  dumb  i " 


COfjat  tfje  Bullet 


O  JOY  of  creation 
To  be! 

0  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free  ! 
Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the 

1  shall  find  my  love  —  the  one 

Born  for  me  ! 


I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  overthrown  ; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  god-like  front  and  grace  ; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space, 

All  my  own  I 

It  is  he  —  O  my  love  ! 

So  bold  ! 
It  is  I  —  All  thy  love 

Foretold  ! 

It  is  I.     O  love  !  what  bliss  ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart  !  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold  ? 


PARODIES,  ETC. 


255 


13efore  tije  Curtain. 

BEHIND  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize, 
A  trifle  shabby  in  the  upturned  blaze 
Of  flaring  gas  and  curious  eyes  that  gaze. 

The  stage,  methinks,  perhaps  is  none  too  wide, 

And  hardly  fit  for  royal  Richard's  stride, 

Or  Falstaffs  bulk,  or  Denmark's  youthful  pride. 

Ah,  well !  no  passion  walks  its  humble  boards ; 
O'er  it  no  king  nor  valiant  Hector  lords  : 
The  simplest  skill  is  all  its  space  affords. 

The  song  and  jest,  the  dance  and  trifling  play, 
The  local  hit  at  follies  of  the  day, 
The  trick  to  pass  an  idle  hour  away, — 

For  these  no  trumpets  that  announce  the  Moor, 
No  blast  that  makes  the  hero's  welcome  sure, — 
A  single  fiddle  in  the  overture  ! 


Co  tfje  pliocene 

(A   GEOLOGICAL  ADDRESS.) 

"  SPEAK,  O  man,  less  recent !     Fragmentary  fossil ! 
Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
Of  volcanic  tufa ! 

"  Older  than  the  beasts,  the  oldest  Palaeotherium ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  oldest  Cryptogami ; 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infantile  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 

"  Eo — Mio — Plio — whatsoe'er  the  '  cene '  was 
That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  with  awe  and  wonder,- 
Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches, — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 

"  Or  has  the  professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

"  Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Reared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and  distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 


To  the  Pliocene  SkulL  257 

"  Tell  us  of  that  scene, — the  dim  and  watery  woodland, 
Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect, 
Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with  tall  club- 
mosses, 
Lycopodiacea, — 

"When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 

"  Tell  us  of  thy  food, — those  half-marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell  and  Brachipods  au  natural^ — 
Cuttlefish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

"  Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  earth's  creation, — 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secret  of  thy  past  existence, — 
Speak  !  thou  oldest  primate  ! " 

Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla, 
And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 
With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And,  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  express  juices  of  the  weed  Nicotian, 
Came  these  hollow  accents,  blent  with  softer  murmurs 
Of  expectoration : 

"  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was  busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft  in  Calaveras  County, 
But  I'd  take  it  kindly  if  you'd  send  the  pieces 

Home  to  old  Missouri ! " 
VOL.  i.  R 


(    258    ) 


Cfce  'Baflati  of  *pr,  Coofte. 

(A  LEGEND   OF   THE   CLIFF   HOUSE,    SAN   FRANCISCO.) 

WHERE  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Drives  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
That  the  Cliff-House  balconies 

Overlook : 

There,  in  spite  of  rain  that  balked, 
With  his  sandals  duly  chalked, 
Once  upon  a  tight-rope  walked 

Mr.  Cooke. 

But  the  jester's  lightsome  mien, 
And  his  spangles  and  his  sheen, 
All  had  vanished  when  the  scene 

He  forsook. 

Yet  in  some  delusive  hope, 
In  some  vague  desire  to  cope, 
One  still  came  to  view  the  rope 

Walked  by  Cooke. 


Amid  Beauty's  bright  array, 
On  that  strange  eventful  day, 
Partly  hidden  from  the  spray, 

In  a  nook, 


The  Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke.  259 

Stood  Florinda  Vere  de  Vere  ; 
Who,  with  wind-dishevelled  hair, 
And  a  rapt,  distracted  air, 

Gazed  on  Cooke, 


Then  she  turned,  and  quickly  cried 

To  her  lover  at  her  side, 

While  her  form  with  love  and  pride 

Wildly  shook : 

"  Clifford  Snook  !  oh,  hear  me  now ! 
Here  I  break  each  plighted  vow . 
There's  but  one  to  whom  I  bow, 

And  that's  Cooke  f  * 


Haughtily  that  young  man  spoke : 
"  I  descend  from  noble  folk ; 
'Seven  Oaks,'  and  then  'Se'nnoak/ 

Lastly  Snook, 

Is  the  way  my  name  I  trace. 
Shall  a  youth  of  noble  race 
In  affairs  of  love  give  place 

To  a  Cooke?" 


"  Clifford  Snook,  I  know  thy  claim 
To  that  lineage  and  name, 
And  I  think  I've  read  the  same 

In  Home  Tooke ; 
But  I  swear,  by  all  divine, 
Never,  never,  to  be  thine, 
Till  thou  canst  upon  yon  line 

Walk  like  Cooke.* 


260  The  Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke. 

Though  to  that  gymnastic  feat 
He  no  closer  might  compete 
Than  to  strike  a  fra/ance-sheet 

In  a  book ; 

Yet  thenceforward,  from  that  day, 
He  his  figure  would  display 
In  some  wild  athletic  way, 

After  Cooke. 


On  some  household  eminence, 
On  a  clothes-line  or  a  fence, 
Over  ditches,  drains,  and  thence 

O'er  a  brook, 
He,  by  high  ambition  led, 
Ever  walked  and  balanced, 
Till  the  people,  wondering,  said, 

"How  like  Cooke!" 


Step  by  step  did  he  proceed, 
Nerved  by  valour,  not  by  greed, 
And  at  last  the  crowning  deed 

Undertook. 

Misty  was  the  midnight  air, 
And  the  cliff  was  bleak  and  bare, 
When  he  came  to  do  and  dare, 

Just  like  Cooka 


Through  the  darkness,  o'er  the  flow, 
Stretched  the  line  where  he  should  go, 
Straight  across  as  flies  the  crow 

Or  the  rook : 


The  Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke.  261 

One  wild  glance  around  he  cast ; 
Then  he  faced  the  ocean  blast, 
And  he  strode  the  cable  last 

Touched  by  Cooke. 


Vainly  roared  the  angry  seas, 
Vainly  blew  the  ocean  breeze ; 
But,  alas  !  the  walker's  knees 

Had  a  crook ; 

And  before  he  reached  the  rock 
Did  they  both  together  knock, 
And  he  siumbled  with  a  shock — 

Unlike  Cooke ! 


Downward  dropping  in  the  dark, 
Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark, 
Or  a  fish-pole  when  a  shark 

Bites  the  hook, 

Dropped  the  pole  he  could  not  save, 
Dropped  the  walker,  and  the  wave 
Swift  engulfed  the  rival  brave 

Of  J.  Cooke! 


Came  a  roar  across  the  sea 
Of  sea-lions  in  their  glee, 
In  a  tongue  remarkably 

Like  Chinook; 

And  the  maddened  sea-gull  seemed 
Still  to  utter,  as  he  screamed, 
"  Perish  thus  the  wretch  who  deemed 

Himself  Cooke ! " 


262  The  Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke. 

But  on  misty  moon-lit  nights 

Comes  a  skeleton  in  tights, 

Walks  once  more  the  giddy  heights 

He  mistook ; 

And,  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 
Purged  of  grosser  earthly  ties 
Now  at  last  in  spirit  guise 

Outdoes  Cooke. 


Still  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Sweeps  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
Where  the  Cliff-house  balconies 

Overlook ; 

And  the  maidens  in  their  prime, 
Reading  of  this  mournful  rhyme, 
Weep  where,  in  the  olden  time, 

Walked  J.  Cooke. 


263 


of  tfje  <ZEmeu, 


O  SAY,  have  you  seen  at  the  Willows  so  green,  — 

So  charming  and  rurally  true,  — 
A  singular  bird,  with  a  manner  absurd, 

Which  they  call  the  Australian  Emeu  ? 

Have  you 

Ever  seen  this  Australian  Emeu  ? 

It  trots  all  around  with  its  head  on  the  ground, 

Or  erects  it  quite  out  of  your  view  ; 
And  the  ladies  all  cry,  when  its  figure  they  spy, 

"  Oh  !  what  a  sweet  pretty  Emeu  ! 

Oh!  do 

Just  look  at  that  lovely  Emeu  !  " 

One  day  to  this  spot,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 
Came  Matilda  Hortense  Fortescue  ; 

And  beside  her  there  came  a  youth  of  high  name,- 
Augustus  Florell  Montague  : 

The  two 
Both  loved  that  wild,  foreign  Emeu. 

With  two  loaves  of  bread  then  they  fed  it,  instead 
Of  the  flesh  of  the  white  cockatoo, 


264  The  Ballad  of  the  Emeu. 

Which  once  was  its  food  in  that  wild  neighbourhood 
Where  ranges  the  sweet  Kangaroo, 

That  too 
Is  game  for  the  famous  Emeu  ! 


Old  saws  and  gimlets  but  its  appetite  whets, 

Like  the  world-famous  bark  of  Peru  ; 
There's  nothing  so  hard  that  the  bird  will  discard, 

And  nothing  its  taste  will  eschew, 

That  you 

Can  give  that  long-legged  Emeu  ! 

The  time  slipped  away  in  this  innocent  play 

When  up  jumped  the  bold  Montague  : 
"  Where's  that  specimen  pin  that  I  gayly  did  win 

In  raffle,  and  gave  unto  you, 

Fortescue  ?  " 

No  word  spoke  the  guilty  Emeu ! 

"  Quick !  tell  me  his  name  whom  thou  gavest  that  same, 
Ere  these  hands  in  thy  blood  I  embrue !" 

"Nay,  dearest,"  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  his  side, 
"  I'm  innocent  as  that  Emeu  ! " 

"Adieu!" 
He  replied,  "  Miss  M.  H.  Fortescue  ! " 

Down  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  all  as  white  as  a  sheet, 

As  wildly  he  fled  from  her  view  ; 
He  thought  'twas  her  sin, — for  he  knew  not  the  pin 

Had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Emeu ; 

All  through 

The  voracity  of  that  Emeu  ! 


(BEING  THE  ONLY  GENUINE   SEQUEL  TO   "MAUD   MULLER.") 

MAUD  MULLER  all  that  summer  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay; 

Yet,  looking  down  the  distant  lane, 
She  hoped  the  Judge  would  come  again. 

But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 

Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered,  "Ha-ow?" 

And  spoke  of  her  "  pa/'  and  wondered  whether 
He'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 

Old  Muller  burst  in  tears,  and  then 

Begged  that  the  Judge  would  lend  him  "  ten ; " 

For  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low, 

And  the  "  craps,"  this  year,  were  somewhat  slow. 

And  ere  the  languid  summer  died, 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  Judge's  bride. 


266  Mrs.  fridge  Jenkins. 

But,  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated ; 

And  Maud's  relations,  twelve  in  all, 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  Judge's  hall. 

And  when  the  summer  came  again, 
The  young  bride  bore  him  babies  twain ; 

And  the  Judge  was  blest,  but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change. 

For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout, 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 

Was  more  than  he  now  could  span ;  and  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully, 

How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place ; 


And  thought  of  the  twins,  and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  man  who  raked  the  hay 

On  Miiller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  pain 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane. 

And,  looking  down  that  dreary  track, 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back. 

For,  had  he  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred ; 


Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins.  267 

For  there  be  women  fair  as  she, 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 

Alas  for  maiden  !  alas  for  judge  ! 

And  the  sentimental, — that's  one-half  "  fudge ; " 

For  Maud  soon  thought  the  Judge  a  bore, 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore ; 

And  the  Judge  would  have  bartered  Maud's  fair 

face 
For  more  refinement  and  social  grace. 

If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  saddest  are,  "  It  might  have  been," 

More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see : 
M  It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 


(     268 


(Geological 


I  HAVE  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair  ; 

I  know  where  the  fossils  abound, 
Where  the  footprints  of  Aves  declare 

The  birds  that  once  walked  on  the  ground  ; 
Oh,  come,  and  —  in  technical  speech- 

We'll  walk  this  Devonian  shore, 
Or  on  some  Silurian  beach 

We'll  wander,  my  love,  evermore. 

I  will  show  thee  the  sinuous  track 

By  the  slow-moving  annelid  made, 
Or  the  Trilobite  that,  farther  back, 

In  the  old  Potsdam  sandstone  was  laid  ; 
Thou  shalt  see,  in  his  Jurassic  tomb, 

The  Plesiosaurus  embalmed  ; 
In  his  Oolitic  prime  and  his  bloom, 

Iguanodon  safe  and  unharmed  ! 

You  wished  —  I  remember  it  well, 

And  I  loved  you  the  more  for  that  wish  —  • 
For  a  perfect  cystedian  shell 

And  a  whole  holocephalic  fish. 
And  oh,  if  Earth's  strata  contains 

In  its  lowest  Silurian  drift, 
Or  palaeozoic  remains 

The  same,  —  'tis  your  lover's  free  gift  ! 


A  Geological  Madrigal.  269 

Then  come,  love,  and  never  say  nay, 

But  calm  all  your  maidenly  fears ; 
We'll  note,  love,  in  one  summer's  day 

The  record  of  millions  of  years ; 
And  though  the  Darwinian  plan 

Your  sensitive  feelings  may  shock, 
We'll  find  the  beginning  of  man, — 

Our  fossil  ancestors,  in  rock  1 


(       270       ) 


(AN  AERIAL  RETROSPECT.) 

WHAT  was  it  filled  my  youthful  dreams, 
In  place  of  Greek  or  Latin  themes, 
Or  beauty's  wild,  bewildering  beams  ? 

Avitor ! 

What  visions  and  celestial  scenes 
I  filled  with  aerial  machines, 
Montgolfier's  and  Mr.  Green's  ! 

Avitor ! 

What  fairy  tales  seemed  things  of  course  ! 
The  roc  that  brought  Sindbad  across, 
The  Calendar's  own  winged-horse  ! 

Avitor  1 

How  many  things  I  took  for  facts, — 
Icarus  and  his  conduct  lax, 
And  how  he  sealed  his  fate  with  wax  ! 

Avitor  I 

The  first  balloons  I  sought  to  sail, 
Soap-bubbles  fair,  but  all  too  frail, 
Or  kites, — but  thereby  hangs  a  tail. 

Avitor ! 


Avitor.  271 

What  made  me  launch  from  attic  tall 

A  kitten  and  a  parasol, 

And  watch  their  bitter,  frightful  fall  ? 

Avitor ! 

What  youthful  dreams  of  high  renown 
Bade  me  inflate  the  parson's  gown, 
That  went  not  up,  nor  yet  came  down  ? 

Avitor  1 

My  first  ascent  I  may  not  tell ; 
Enough  to  know  that  in  that  well 
My  first  high  aspirations  fell. 

Avitor  I 

My  other  failures  let  me  pass  : 
The  dire  explosions,  and,  alas  ! 
The  friends  I  choked  with  noxious  gas. 

Avitor ! 

For  lo !  I  see  perfected  rise 
The  vision  of  my  boyish  eyes, 
The  messenger  of  upper  skies. 

Avitor  I 


(AFTER  EDGAR  ATJLAN  POE.) 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  streets  they  were  dirty  and  drear  j 
It  was  night  in  the  month  of  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year. 
Like  the  skies,  I  was  per/ectly  sober, 

As  I  stopped  at  the  mansion  of  Shear, — 
At  the  Nightingale, — perfectly  sober, 

And  the  willowy  woodland  down  here. 

Here,  once  in  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  Ten-pins, — I  roamed  with  my  soul,— 

Of  Ten-pins, — with  Mary,  my  soul ; 
They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic, 

And  impelled  me  to  frequently  roll, 

And  made  me  resistlessly  roll, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

In  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  pole, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

With  the  monkey  atop  of  his  pole. 

I  repeat,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

But  my  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sear,- 
My  thoughts  were  decidedly  queer ; 

For  I  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 


The  Willows.  273 

And  I  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year; 
I  forgot  that  sweet  morceau  of  Auber 

That  the  band  oft  performed  down  here, 
And  I  mixed  the  sweet  music  of  Auber 

With  the  Nightingale's  music  by  Shear. 

And  now  as  the  night  was  senescent, 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

And  car-drivers  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  the  path  a  liquescent 

And  bibulous  lustre  was  born ; 
'Twas  made  by  the  bar-keeper  present, 

Who  mixed  a  duplicate  horn, — 
His  two  hands  describing  a  crescent 

Distinct  with  a  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  :  "  This  looks  perfectly  regal, 

For  it's  warm,  and  I  know  I  feel  dry, 

I  am  confident  that  I  feel  dry ; 
We  have  come  past  the  emeu  and  eagle, 

And  watched  the  gay  monkey  on  high  ; 
Let  us  drink  to  the  emeu  and  eagle, — 

To  the  swan  and  the  monkey  on  high, 

To  the  eagle  and  monkey  on  high ; 
For  this  bar-keeper  will  not  inveigle, — 

Bully  boy  with  the  vitreous  eye ; 
He  surely  would  never  inveigle, — 

Sweet  youth  with  the  crystalline  eye." 

But  Mary,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said,  "  Sadly  this  bar  I  mistrust, — 

I  fear  that  this  bar  does  not  trust 
Oh,  hasten  !  oh,  let  us  not  linger 

Oh,  fly, — let  us  fly,— ere  we  must  !" 

VOL.  I.  c 


274  The  Willow*. 

In  terror  she  cried,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust, — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust, — 
Till  it  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

Then  I  pacified  Mary  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  into  the  room, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  warning  of  doom, — 
By  some  words  that  were  warning  of  doom. 

And  I  said,  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  ?  ". 

She  sobbed,  as  she  answered,  "  All  liquors 
Must  be  paid  for  ere  leaving  the  room." 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober, 
As  the  streets  were  deserted  an  I      ear,— 
For  my  pockets  were  empty  and  drear ; 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, — 
That  I  brought  a  fair  maiden  down  here, 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year. 
Ah  !  to  me  that  inscription  is  clear ; 

Well  I  know  now,  I'm  perfectly  sober, 
Why  no  longer  they  credit  me  here, — 

Well  I  know  now  that  music  of  Auber, 
And  this  Nightingale,  kept  by  one  Shear. 


275 


(AFTER  SPENSER.) 

Lo  !  where  the  castle  of  bold  PfeifTer  throws 

Its  sullen  shadow  on  the  rolling  tide, — 

No  more  the  home  where  joy  and  wealth  repose, 

But  now  where  wassailers  in  cells  abide ; 

See  yon  long  quay  that  stretches  far  and  wide, 

Well  known  to  citizens  as  wharf  of  Meiggs  ; 

There  each  sweet  Sabbath  walks  in  maiden  pride 

Then  pensive  Margaret,  and  brave  Pat,  whose  legs 

Encased  in  broadcloth  oft  keep  time  with  Peg's. 

Here  cometh  oft  the  tender  nursery-maid, 
While  in  her  ear  her  love  his  tale  doth  pour ; 
Meantime  her  infant  doth  her  charge  evade, 
And  rambleth  sagely  on  the  sandy  shore, 
Till  the  sly  sea-crab,  low  in  ambush  laid, 
Seizeth  his  leg  and  biteth  him  full  sore. 
Ah  me  !  what  sounds  the  shuddering  echoes  bore 
When  his  small  treble  mixed  with  Ocean's  roar. 

Hard  by  there  stands  an  ancient  hostelrie, 

And  at  its  side  a  garden,  where  the  bear, 

The  stealthy  catamount,  and  coon  agree 

To  work  deceit  on  all  who  gather  there ; 

And  when  Augusta — that  unconscious  fair — 

With  nuts  and  apples  plieth  Bruin  free, 

Lo !  the  green  parrot  claweth  her  back  hair, 

And  the  grey  monkey  grabbeth  fruits  that  she 

On  her  gay  bonnet  wears,  and  laugheth  loud  in  glee ! 


C    270    ) 


Cfje  lost  Caife  of 


HIGH  on  the  Thracian  hills,  half  hid  in  the  billows  of  clover, 
Thyme,  and  the  asphodel  blooms,  and  lulled  by  Pactolian 

streamlet, 

She  of  Miletus  lay,  and  beside  her  an  aged  satyr 
Scratched  his  ear  with  his  hoof,  and  playfully  mumbled  his 

chestnuts. 

Vainly  the  Maenid  and  the  Bassarid  gambolled  about  her, 
The  free-eyed  Bacchante  sang,  and  Pan  —  the  renowned,  the 

accomplished  — 
Executed  his  difficult  solo.    In  vain  were  their  gambols  and 

dances  : 
High  o'er  the  Thracian  hills  rose  the  voice  of  the  shep 

herdess,  wailing. 

"  Ai  !  for  the  fleecy  flocks,  —  the  meek-nosed,  the  passionless 

faces  ; 
Ai  !   for  the  tallow-scented,  the   straight-tailed,  the   high- 

stepping  ; 
Ai  !  for  the  timid  glance,  which  is  that  which  the  rustic, 

sagacious, 
Applies  to  him  who  loves  but  may  not  declare  his  passion  !" 


The  Lost  Tails  of  Miletus.  277 

Her  then  Zeus  answered  slow :  "  O  daughter  of  song  and 

sorrow, — 

Hapless  tender  of  sheep, — arise  from  thy  long  lamentation ! 
Since  thou  canst  not  trust  fate,  nor  behave  as  becomes  a 

Greek  maiden, 
Look  and  behold  thy  sheep." — And  lo!  they  returned  to  her 

tailless ! 


278 


Cfje  Bttualtet 

BY  A  COMMUNICANT  OF  "  ST.  JAMES'S." 

HE  wore,  I  think,  a  chasuble,  the  day  when  first  we  met ; 

A  stole  and  snowy  alb  likewise  :  I  recollect  it  yet. 

He  called  me  "  daughter,"  as  he  raised  his  jewelled  hand  to 
bless ; 

And  then,  in  thrilling  undertones,  he  asked,  "  Would  I  con 
fess?" 

0  mother  dear !  blame  not  your  child,  if  then  on  bended 

knees 

1  dropped,  and  thought  of  Aboard,  and  also  Eloise ; 

Or  when,  beside  the  altar  high,  he  bowed  before  the  pyx, 
I  envied  that  seraphic  kiss  he  gave  the  crucifix. 

The  cruel  world  may  think  it  wrong,  perhaps  may  deem  me 
weak, 

And,  speaking  of  that  sainted  man,  may  call  his  conduct 
"cheek;" 

And,  like  that  wicked  barrister  whom  Cousin  Harry  quotes, 

May  term  his  mixed  chalice  "  grog,"  his  vestments  "  petti 
coats  : " 

But,  whatsoe'er  they  do  or  say,  I'll  build  a  Christian's  hope 
On  incense  and  on  altar-lights,  on  chasuble  and  cope. 
Let  others  prove,  by  precedent,  the  faith  that  they  profess : 
"  His  can't  be  wrong  "  that's  symbolised  by  such  becoming 
dress. 


279 


a  ^oral  UtntJicator, 


IF  Mr.  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  one  peculiar  quality, 
'Twas  his  severe  advocacy 
Of  conjugal  fidelity. 

His  views  of  heaven  were  very  free  ; 
His  views  of  life  were  painfully 
Ridiculous  ;  but  fervently 
He  dwelt  on  marriage  sanctity. 

He  frequently  went  on  a  spree  ; 
But  in  his  wildest  revelry, 
On  this  especial  subject  he 
Betrayed  no  ambiguity. 

And  though  at  times  Lycurgus  B. 
Did  lay  his  hands  not  lovingly 
Upon  his  wife,  the  sanctity 
Of  wedlock  was  his  guaranty. 

But  Mrs.  Jones  declined  to  see 
Affairs  in  the  same  light  as  he, 
And  quietly  got  a  decree 
Divorcing  her  from  that  L.  B. 


280  A  Moral  Vindicator. 

And  what  did  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
With  his  known  idiosyncrasy? 
He  smiled, — a  bitter  smile  to  see, — 
And  drew  the  weapon  of  Bowie. 

He  did  what  Sickles  did  to  Key, — 
What  Cole  on  Hiscock  wrought,  did  he ; 
In  fact,  on  persons  twenty-three 
He  proved  the  marriage  sanctity. 

The  counsellor  who  took  the  fee, 
The  witnesses  and  referee, 
The  Judge  who  granted  the  decree, 
Died  in  that  wholesale  butchery. 

And  then  when  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  wiped  the  weapon  of  Bowie, 
Twelve  jurymen  did  instantly 
Acquit  and  set  Lycurgus  free. 


(       281       ) 


California 

(ON   THE  APPROACH   OF   SPRING.) 

OH  come,  my  beloved  !  from  thy  winter  abode, 
From  thy  home  on  the  Yuba,  thy  ranch  overflowed : 
For  the  waters  have  fallen,  the  winter  has  fled, 
And  the  river  once  more  has  returned  to  its  bed. 

Oh,  mark  how  the  spring  in  its  beauty  is  near ! 
How  the  fences  and  tules  once  more  reappear  ! 
How  soft  lies  the  mud  on  the  banks  of  yon  slough 
By  the  hole  in  the  levee  the  waters  broke  through  ! 

All  nature,  dear  Chloris,  is  blooming  to  greet 
The  glance  of  your  eye  and  the  tread  of  your  feet ; 
For  the  trails  are  all  open,  the  roads  are  all  free, 
And  the  highwayman's  whistle  is  heard  on  the  lea. 

Again  swings  the  lash  on  the  high  mountain  trail, 
And  the  pipe  of  the  packer  is  scenting  the  gale ; 
The  oath  and  the  jest  ringing  high  o'er  the  plain, 
Where  the  smut  is  not  always  confined  to  the  grain. 

Once  more  glares  the  sunlight  on  awning  and  roof, 
Once  more  the  red  clay's  pulverised  by  the  hoof, 


282  California  Madrigal. 

Once  more  the  dust  powders  the  "  outsides  "  with  red, 
Once  more  at  the  station  the  whisky  is  spread. 

Then  fly  with  me,  love,  ere  the  summer's  begun, 
And  the  mercury  mounts  to  one  hundred  and  one ; 
Ere  the  grass  now  so  green  shall  be  withered  and  sear, 
In  the  spring  that  obtains  but  one  month  in  the  year. 


tfie  (Engines 

(OPENING  OF  THE  PACIFIC  RAILROAD.) 

WHAT  was  it  the  Engines  said, 
Pilots  touching, — head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back  ? 
This  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread. 

With  a  prefatory  screech, 
In  a  florid  Western  speech, 
Said  the  Engine  from  the  WEST  : 
"  I  am  from  Sierra's  crest ; 
And,  if  altitude's  a  test, 
Why,  I  reckon,  it's  confessed 
That  I've  done  my  level  best." 

Said  the  Engine  from  the  EAST  : 
"  They  who  work  best  talk  the  least 
S'pose  you  whistle  down  your  brakes ; 
What  you've  done  is  no  great  shakes, 
Pretty  fair, — but  let  our  meeting 
Be  a  different  kind  of  greeting. 


284  What  the  Engines  Said. 

Let  these  folks  with  champagne  stuffing, 

Not  their  Engines,  do  the  fluffing. 

Listen  !     Where  Atlantic  beats 

Shores  of  snow  and  summer  heats ; 

Where  the  Indian  autumn  skies 

Paint  the  woods  with  wampum  dyes,—- 

I  have  chased  the  flying  sun, 

Seeing  all  he  looked  upon, 

Blessing  all  that  he  has  blest, 

Nursing  in  my  iron  breast 

All  his  vivifying  heat, 

All  his  clouds  about  my  crest  j 

And  before  my  flying  feet 

Every  shadow  must  retreat." 

Said  the  Western  Engine,  "  Phew  !  * 
And  a  long  low  whistle  blew. 
"  Come  now,  really  that's  the  oddest 
Talk  for  one  so  very  modest. 
You  brag  of  your  East !     You  do  ? 
Why,  7  bring  the  East  to  you  ! 
All  the  Orient,  all  Cathay, 
Find  through  me  the  shortest  way ; 
And  the  sun  you  follow  here 
Rises  in  my  hemisphere. 
Really, — if  one  must  be  rude, — • 
Length,  my  friend,  ain't  longitude." 

Said  the  Union,  "  Don't  reflect,  or 
I'll  run  over  some  Director." 
Said  the  Central,  "I'm  Pacific; 
But,  when  riled,  I'm  quite  terrific. 
Yet  to-day  we  shall  not  quarrel, 
Just  to  show  these  folks  this  moral, 


What  the  Engines  Said.  285 

How  two  Engines — in  their  vision — 
Once  have  met  without  collision." 
That  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread ; 
Spoken  slightly  through  the  nose. 
With  a  whistle  at  the  close. 


286 


Cfte  !Legenti0  of  tfie  Efnne. 

BEETLING  walls  with  ivy  grown, 
Frowning  heights  of  mossy  stone  ; 
Turret,  with  its  flaunting  flag 
Flung  from  battlemented  crag ; 
Dungeon-keep  and  fortalice 
Looking  down  a  precipice 
O'er  the  darkly  glancing  wave 
By  the  Lurline-haunted  cave  ; 
Robber  haunt  and  maiden  bower, 
Home  of  Love  and  Crime  and  Power, — 
That's  the  scenery,  in  fine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

One  bold  baron,  double-dyed 
Bigamist  and  parricide, 
And,  as  most  the  stories  run, 
Partner  of  the  Evil  One ; 
Injured  innocence  in  white, 
Fair  but  idiotic  quite, 
Wringing  of  her  lily  hands ; 
Valour  fresh  from  Paynim  lands, 
Abbot  ruddy,  hermit  pale, 
Minstrel  fraught  with  many  a  tale,— 
Are  the  actors  that  combine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


The  Legends  of  the  Rhine.  287 

Bell-mouthed  flagons  round  a  board  ; 
Suits  of  armour,  shield,  and  sword ; 
Kerchief  with  its  bloody  stain  ; 
Ghosts  of  the  untimely  slain ; 
Thunder-clap  and  clanking  chain ; 
Headsman's  block  and  shining  axe ; 
Thumb-screw,  crucifixes,  racks ; 
Midnight-tolling  chapel  bell, 
Heard  across  the  gloomy  fell, — 
These  and  other  pleasant  facts 
Are  the  properties  that  shine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Maledictions,  whispered  vows 
Underneath  the  linden  boughs ; 
Murder,  bigamy,  and  theft ; 
Travellers  of  goods  bereft ; 
Rapine,  pillage,  arson,  spoil, — 
Everything  but  honest  toil, 
Are  the  deeds  that  best  define 
Every  Legend  of  the  Rhine. 

That  Virtue  always  meets  reward, 
But  quicker  when  it  wears  a  sword ; 
That  Providence  has  special  care 
Of  gallant  knight  and  lady  fair ; 
That  villains,  as  a  thing  of  course, 
Are  always  haunted  by  remorse, — 
Is  the  moral,  I  opine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


(     288 


toitftout 

FOR  THE  PARLOUR  AND  PIANO. 

I. — THE   PERSONIFIED    SENTIMENTAL. 

AFFECTION'S  charm  no  longer  gilds 

The  idol  of  the  shrine ; 
But  cold  Oblivion  seeks  to  fill 

Regret's  ambrosial  wine. 
Though  Friendship's  offering  buried  lies 

'Neath  cold  Aversions  snow, 
Regard  and  Faith  will  ever  bloom 

Perpetually  below. 

I  see  thee  whirl  in  marble  halls, 

In  Pleasure's  giddy  train ; 
Remorse  is  never  on  that  brow, 

Nor  Sorrow's  mark  of  pain. 
Deceit  has  marked  thee  for  her  own ; 

Inconstancy  the  same ; 
And  Ruin  wildly  sheds  its  gleam 

Athwart  thy  path  of  shame. 

II. — THE   HOMELY   PATHETIC. 

The  dews  are  heavy  on  my  brow ; 

My  breath  comes  hard  and  low ; 
Yet,  mother  dear,  grant  one  request, 

Before  your  boy  must  go. 
Oh  !  lift  me  ere  my  spirit  sinks, 

And  ere  my  senses  fail : 


Songs  without  Sense. 

Place  me  once  more,  O  mother  dear  1 
Astride  the  old  fence-rail. 


289 


The  old  fence-rail,  the  old  fence-rail ! 

How  oft  these  youthful  legs, 
With  Alice'  and  Ben  Bolt's,  were  hung 

Across  those  wooden  pegs. 
'Twas  there  the  nauseating  smoke 

Of  my  first  pipe  arose  : 

0  mother  dear !  these  agonies 
Are  far  less  keen  than  those. 

1  know  where  lies  the  hazel  dell, 
Where  simple  Nellie  sleeps ; 

I  know  the  cot  of  Nettie  Moore, 
And  where  the  willow  weeps. 

I  know  the  brook  side  and  the  mill, 
But  all  their  pathos  fails 

Beside  the  days  when  once  I  sat 
Astride  the  old  fence-rails. 


VOL.  i. 


III. — SWISS   AIR. 

I'M  a  gay  tra,  la,  la, 
With  my  fal,  lal,  la,  la, 
And  my  bright — 
And  my  light — 

Tra,  Ja,  le.  [Repeat.] 

Then  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
And  ring,  ting,  ling,  ling, 
And  sing  fal,  la,  la, 

La,  la,  le.      .  [Repeat] 


LITTLE  POSTERITY. 


293 


faster  Joining'*  J®e*t*£)oor 

IT  was  spring  the  first  time  that  I  saw  her,  for  her  papa 

and  mamma  moved  in 
Next  door,  just  as  skating  was  over,  and  marbles  about  to 

begin, 
For  the  fence  in  our  back-yard  was  broken,  and  I  saw  as  I 

peeped  through  the  slat, 
There  were  "  Johnny  Jump-ups  "  all  around  her,  and  I  knew 

it  was  spring  just  by  that. 

I  never  knew  whether  she   saw  me — for  she   didn't   say 

nothing  to  me, 
But  "  Ma !  here's  a  slat  in  the  fence  broke,  and  the  boy 

that  is  next  door  can  see." 
But  the  next  day  I  climbed  on  our  wood-shed,  as  you  know 

mamma  says  Fve  a  right, 
And  she  calls  out,    "  Well,  peekin  is  manners ! "  and  I 

answered  her,  "  Sass  is  perlite  !  " 

But  I  wasn't  a  bit  mad,  no,  Papa,  and  to  prove  it,  the  very 

next  day, 
When  she  ran  past  our  fence  in  the  morning  I  happened  to 

get  in  her  way, 


294     Master  Johnny  s  Next-door  Neighbour. 

For  you  know  I  am  "  chunked  "  and  clumsy,  as  she  says 

are  all  boys  of  my  size, 
And  she  nearly  upset  me,  she  did,  Pa,  and  laughed  till  tears 

came  in  her  eyes. 


And  then  we  were  friends  from  that  moment,  for  I  knew 

that  she  told  Kitty  Sage, 
And  she  wasn't  a  girl  that  would  flatter,  "  that  she  thought 

I  was  tall  for  my  age/' 
And  I  gave  her  four  apples  that  evening,  and  took  her  to 

ride  on  my  sled, 
And — "  What  am  I  telling  you  this  for?"    Why,  Papa,  my 

neighbour  is  dead! 


You  don't  hear  one-half  I  am  saying — I  really  do  think 

it's  too  bad  ! 
Why,  you  might  have  seen  crape  on  her  door-knob,  and 

noticed  to-day  I've  been  sad. 
And  they've  got  her  a  coffin  of  rosewood,  and  they  say  they 

have  dressed  her  in  white, 
And  I've  never  once  looked  through  the  fence,  Pa,  since 

she  died — at  eleven  last  night 


And  Ma  says  it's  decent  and  proper,  as  I  was  her  neigh 

bour  and  friend, 
That  I  should  go  there  to  the  funeral,  and  she  thinks  that 

you  ought  to  attend  ; 
But  I  am  so  clumsy  and  awkward,  I  know  I  shall  be  in  the 

way, 
And  suppose  they  should  speak  to  me,  Papa,  I  wouldn't 

know  just  what  to  say. 


Master  Johnny's  Next-door  Neighbour.     295 

So  I  think  I  will  get  up  quite  early,  I  know  I  sleep  late,  but 

I  know 
I'll  be  sure  to  wake  up  if  our  Bridget  pulls  the  string  that 

I'll  tie  to  my  toe  ; 
And  I'll  crawl  through  the  fence  and  I'll  gather  the  "  Johnny 

Jump-ups  "  as  they  grew 
Round  her  feet  the  first  day  that  I  saw  her,  and,  Papa,  I'll 

give  them  to  you. 

For  you're  a  big  man,  and  you  know,  Pa,  can  come  and  go 

just  where  you  choose, 
And  you'll  take  the  flowers  into  her.  and  surely  they'll  never 

refuse ; 
But,   Papa,   don't   say  they're   from   Johnny ;   they  won't 

understand,  don't  you  see  ? 
But  just  lay  them  down  on  her  bosom,  and,  Papa,  she'll 

know  they're  from  Me. 


Kegueit;    , 


MY  papa  knows  you,  and  he  says  you're  a  man  who  makes 

reading  for  books  ; 
But  I  never  read  nothing  you  wrote,  nor  did  papa  —  I  know 

by  his  looks. 
So  I  guess  you're  like  me  when  I  talk,  and  I  talk,  and  I 

talk  all  the  day, 
And  they  only  say  :  "  Do  stop  that  child  !  '  or,  "  Nurse,  take 

Miss  Edith  away." 

-But  papa  said  if  I  was  good  I  could  ask  you  —  alone  by 

myself  — 
If  you  wouldn't  write  me  a  book  like  that  little  one  up  on 

the  shelf. 
I  don't  mean  the  pictures,  of  course,  for  to  make  them 

you've  got  to  be  smart  ; 
But  the  reading  that  runs  all  around  them,  you  know  — 

just  the  easiest  part. 

You  needn't  mind  what  it's  about,  for  no  one  will  see  it  but 

me 
And  Jane  —  that's  my  nurse  —  and  John  —  he's  the  coach 

man  —  just  only  us  three. 
You're  to  write  of  a  bad  little  girl,  that  was  wicked  and 

bold  and  all  that  ; 
And  then  you  are  to  write,  if  you  please,  something  good 

—  very  good  —  of  a  cat  ! 


Miss  EditKs  Modest  Request.          297 

This  cat  she  was  virtuous  and  meek,  and  kind  to  her  parents 

and  mild, 
And  careful  and  neat  in  her  ways,  though  her  mistress  was 

such  a  bad  child ; 
And  hours  she  would  sit  and  would  gaze  when  her  mistress 

— that's  me — was  so  bad, 
And  blink,  just  as  if  she  would  say  :  "  O  Edith  !  you  make 

my  heart  sad." 


And  yet,  you  would  scarcely  believe  it,  that  beautiful  angelic 

cat 
Was  blamed  by  the  servants  for  stealing  whatever,  they  said, 

she'd  get  at. 
And  when  John  drank  my  milk — don't  you  tell  me ! — I 

know  just  the  way  it  was  done — 
They  said  'twas  the  cat — and  she  sitting  and  washing  her 

face  in  the  sun  ! 


And  then  there  was  Dick,  my  canary.  When  I  left  its  cage 
open  one  day, 

They  all  made  believe  that  she  ate  it,  though  I  know  that 
the  bird  flew  away. 

And  why?  Just  because  she  was  playing  with  a  feather 
she  found  on  the  floor, 

As  if  cats  couldn't  play  with  a  feather  without  people  think 
ing  'twas  more. 


Why,  once  we  were  romping  together,  when  I  knocked  down 

a  vase  from  the  shelf, 
That  cat  was  as  grieved  and  distressed  as  if  she  had  done  it 

herself; 


298  Miss  Edittts  Modest  Request. 

And  she  walked  away  sadly  and  hid  herself,  and  never  came 

out  until  tea — 
So  they  say,  for  they  sent  me  to  bed,  and  she  never  came 

even  to  me. 


No  matter  whatever  happened,  it  was  laid  at  the  door  of 

that  cat. 
Why,  once  when  I  tore  my  apron — she  was  wrapped  in  it, 

and  I  called  "Rat  !"— 
Why,  they  blamed  that  on  her.     I  shall  never — no,  not  to 

my  dying  day — 
Forget  the  pained  look  that  she  gave  me  when  they  slapped 

me  and  took  me  away. 


Of  course,  you  know  just  what  comes  next,  when  a  child  is 

as  lovely  as  that : 
She  wasted  quite  slowly  away — it  was  goodness  was  killing 

that  cat. 
I  know  it  was  nothing  she  ate,  for  her  taste  was  exceedingly 

nice ; 
But  they  said  she  stole  Bobby's  ice  cream,  and  caught  a  bad 

cold  from  the  ice. 


And  you'll  promise  to  make  me  a  book  like  that  little  one 
up  on  the  shelf, 

And  you'll  call  her  "  Naomi,"  because  it's  a  name  that  she 
just  gave  herself; 

For  she'd  scratch  at  my  door  in  the  morning,  and  when 
ever  I'd  call  out,  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

She  would  answer,  "Naomi!  Naomi  1"  like  a  Christian  I 
vow  and  declare. 


Miss  Edith's  Modest  Request.          299 

And  you'll  put  me  and  her  in  a  book.     And,  mind,  you're 

to  say  I  was  bad ; 
And  I  might  have  been  badder   than   that  but   for  the 

example  I  had. 
And  you'll  say  that  she  was  a  Maltese,  and — what's  that 

you  asked  ?     "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

Why,  please,  sir,  there  ain't  any  cat !    You're  to  make  one 
*  up  out  of  your  head  ! 


00 


(ZBHitf)  mafce$  ft  pleasant  for 
'Brotfter  3[ac& 


"  CRYING  !  "  of  course  I  am  crying,  and  I  guess  you  would 

be  crying  too 
If  people  were  telling  such  stories  as  they  tell  about  me, 

about  you. 
Oh  yes,  you  can  laugh,  if  you  want  to,  and  smoke  as  you 

didn't  care  how, 
Arid  get  your  brains  softened  like  uncle's.  —  Dr.  Jones  says 

you're  gettin'  it  now. 

Why  don't  you   say   "  stop  !  "  to   Miss   Ilsey  ?   she   cries 

twice  as  much  as  I  do, 
And  she's  older  and  cries  just  from  meanness  —  for  a  ribbon 

or  anything  new. 
Ma  says  it's  her  "sensitive  nature."   Oh  my  !    No.    I  shan't 

stop  my  talk  ! 
And  I  don't  want  no  apples  nor  candy,  and  I  don't  want 

to  go  take  a  walk  ! 

I  know  why  you're  mad  ?     Yes,  I  do,  now  !     You  think 

that  Miss  Ilsey  likes  you, 
And  I've  heard  her  repeatedly  call  you  the  bold-facest  boy 

that  she  knew  ; 
And  she'd  "like  to  know  where  you  learnt  manners."     Oh 

yes  !     Kick  the  table  —  that's  right  ! 
Spill  the  ink  on  my  dress,  and  go  then  round  telling  Ma 

that  I  look  like  a  fright  ! 


Miss  Edith  makes  it  Pleasant.         30 1 

What    stories?      Pretend   you    don't    know   that    they're 

saying  I  broke  off  the  match 
'Twixt  old  Money-grubber  and  Mary,  by  saying  she  called 

him  "  Crosspatch  ! " 
When  the  only  allusion  I  made  him  about  sister  Mary  was 

she 
Cared  more  for  his  cash  than  his  temper,  and  you  know, 

Jack,  you  said  that  to  me. 

And  it's  true !     But  it's  me,  and  I'm  scolded,  and  Pa  says  if 

I  keep  on  I  might 
By  and  by  get  my  name  in  the  papers  !    Who  cares  ?    Why, 

'twas  only  last  night 
I  was  reading  how  Pa  and  the  sheriff  were  selling  some  lots, 

and  it's  plain 
If  it's  awful  to  be  in  the  papers  why  Papa  would  go  and 

complain. 

You  think  it  ain't  true  about  Ilsey  ?    Well,  I  guess  I  know 

girls — and  I  say 
There's  nothing  I  see  about  Ilsey  to  show  she  likes  you 

anyway  ! 
I  know  what  it  means  when  a  girl  who  has  called  her  cat     , 

after  one  boy 
Goes  and  changes  its  name  to  another's.     And  she's  done 

it — and  I  wish  you  joy  I 


(     3°2     ) 


(ZBDitf)  mafteg  another  jTrfenD. 


OH,  you're  the  girl  lives  on  the  corner  ?     Come  in  —  if  you 

want  to  —  come  quick  ! 
There's  no  one  but  me  in  the  house  and  the  cook  —  but  she's 

only  a  stick. 
Don't  try  the  front  way  but  come  over  the  fence  —  through 

the  window  —  that's  how. 
Don't  mind  the  big  dog  —  he  won't  bite  you  —  just  see  him 

obey  me  !  there  now  ! 

What's  your  name,  "Mary  Ellen?"     How  funny,  mine's 

Edith  —  it's  nicer,  you  see, 
But  yours  does  for  you,  for  you're  plainer,  though  maybe 

you're  gooder  than  me, 
For  Jack  says  I'm  sometimes  a  devil,  but  Jack,  of  all  folks* 

needn't  talk, 
For  I  don't  call  the  seamstress  an  angel  'til  Ma  says  the 

poor  thing  must  "  walk." 

Come  in  !     It's  quite  dark  in  the  parlour,  for  sister  will 

keep  the  blinds  down, 
For  you  know  her  complexion  is  sallow  like  yours,  but  she 

isn't  as  brown  ; 
Though  Jack  says  that  isn't  the  reason  she  likes  to  sit  here 

with  Jim  Moore. 
Do  you  think  that  he  meant  that  she  kissed  him  ?     Would 

you  —  if  your  lips  wasn't  sore? 


Miss  Edith  makes  another  Friend.      303 

If  you  like,  you  can  try  our  piano.     'Taint  ours.     A  man 

left  it  here 
To  rent  by  the  month,  although  Ma  says  he  hasn't  been 

paid  for  a  year. 
Sister  plays — oh,  such  fine  variations  ! — why,  I  once  heard 

a  gentleman  say 
That  she  didn't  mind  that  for  the  music — in  fact,  it  was  just 

in  her  way ! 

Ain't  I  funny  ?  And  yet  it's  the  queerest  of  all,  that  what 
ever  I  say, 

One-half  of  the  folks  die  a-laughing,  and  the  rest  they  all 
look  t'other  way. 

And  some  say,  "  That  child  !  "  Do  they  ever  say  that  to  such 
people  as  you  ? 

Though  maybe  you're  naturally  silly,  and  that  makes  your 
eyes  so  askew. 

Now  stop — don't  you  dare  to  be  crying  !    Just  as  sure  as 

you  live,  if  you  do, 
111  call  in  my  big  dog  to  bite  you,  and  I'll  make  my  Papa 

kill  you  too  ! 
And  then  where'll  you  be  ?     So  play  pretty.     There's  my 

doll,  and  a  nice  piece  of  cake. 
You  don't  want  it — you  think  it  is  poison  !    Then  /'//  eat 

it,  dear,  just  for  your  sake  I 


(     304     ) 


tfje  LanUing, 

(AN  IDYL  OF  THE  BALUSTERS.) 

BOBBY,  (Ztat.  3^.  JOHNNY,  (Ztdt.  4^. 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  they've  put  us  in  that  back  room, 
Up  in  the  attic,  close  against  the  sky, 
And  made  believe  our  nursery's  a  cloak-room? 
Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  Sammy's  mother 
What  Ma  thinks  horrid,  'cause  he  bunged  my  eye, 
Eats  an  ice  cream,  down  there,  like  any  other — 
No  more  don't  1 1 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Nurse  says  it  isn't  manners 
For  you  and  me  to  ask  folks  twice  for  pie, 
And  no  one  hits  that  man  with  two  bananas  ? 
Do  you  know  why? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  girl,  whose  dress  is 
Off  of  her  shoulders,  don't  catch  cold  and  die, 
When  you  and  me  gets  croup  when  we  undresses  1 
No  more  don't  I ! 


On  the  Landing.  305 

BOBBY. 

Perhaps  she  ain't  as  good  as  you  and  I  is, 
And  God  don't  want  her  up  there  in  the  sky, 
And  lets  her  live — to  come  in  just  when  pie  is — 
Perhaps  that's  why  ? 

JOHNNY. 

Do  you  know  why  that  man  that's  got  a  cropped  head 
Rubbed  it  just  now  as  if  he  felt  a  fly  ? 
Could  it  be,  Bobby,  something  that  I  dropded? 
And  is  that  why  ? 

BOBBY. 

Good  boys  behaves,  and  so  they  don't  get  scolded, 
Nor  drop  hot  milk  on  folks  as  they  pass  by. 

JOHNNY  \_piously\ 

Marbles  would  bounce  on  Mr.  Jones'  bald  head— 
But  /shan't  tryl 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Aunt  Jane  is  always  snarling 
At  you  and  me  because  we  tells  a  lie, 
And  she  don't  slap  that  man  that  called  her  darling? 
Do  you  know  why? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  man  with  Mamma 
Just  kissed  her  hand. 

VOL.  i.  U 


306  On  the  Landing. 


BOBBY. 

She  hurt  it — and  that's  why, 
He  made  it  well,  the  very  way  that  Mamma 
Does  do  to  I. 

JOHNNY. 

I  feel  so  sleepy.  .  .  .  Was  that  Papa  kissed  us  ? 
What  made  him  sigh,  and  look  up  to  the  sky? 

BOBBY. 

We  wer'n't  downstairs,  and  he  and  God  had  missed  us, 
And  that  was  why ! 


DRAMA. 
TWO   MEN    OF   SANDY   BAR. 


(     309     ) 


Uramatfe 

"SANDY"    .     •    .     .     Son  of  Alexander  Morton,  sen.      \ 

JOHN  OAKHURST  .       }      His  former  partner,  personat-  '^ 

(      ing  the  prodigal  son,  bandy.      J 

COL.  STARBOTTLE     .    Alexander  Morton,  sen.'s  legal  adviser. 
OLD  MORTON  .    .     .    Alexander  Morton,  sen. 
DON  JOSE    ....    Father  of  Jovita  Castro. 
CAPPER  .....    A  detective. 

CONCHO  .     .     .     •     .    Major-domo  of  Don  Jose's  rancho. 
YORK      .....    An  old  friend  of  Oakhurst. 
PRITCHARD      ,     .     .    An  Australian  convict. 

S°APY|      ....    His  pals. 
SILKY  ) 

(  Confidential     clerk     of     Alexander     Morton, 
JACKSON     .    .    .     j     ^  and  confederate  of  pochard. 

HOP  SING  ....      A  Chinese  laundryman. 

SERVANT  of  Alexander  Morton,  sen.  —  POLICEMEN. 

iThe  schoolmistress  of  Red  Gulch,  in  love 
with  Sandy,  and  cousin  of  Alexander 
Morton,  sen. 

DONA  JOVITA  (  In   love   with  John   Oakhurst,   and    daughter 

CASTRO.     .     .  \     of  Don  Jose. 

!Wife  of  Pritchard,  illegally  married  to 
Sandy,  and  former  "flame"  of  John 
Oakhurst. 

(  Servant     of     Castro,    and     maid     to     Dona 
MANUELA.   .    .    .  j     Joyitlu 


ACT  I. 

THE   RANCHO   OF  THE   BLESSED   INNOCENTS,   AND   HOUSE  OF  DON 
JOSE   CASTRO. 

ACT    II. 
RED  GULCH. 

ACT    III. 
THE  BANKING-HOUSE  OF   MORTON   6°  SON,    SAN   FRANCISCO. 

ACT  IV. 

THE  VILLA   OF  ALEXANDER   MORTON,    §EN.,  SAN   FRANCISCO. 


COSTUMES. 

ALEXANDER  MORTON  ("Sandy").— First  dress:  Mexican  vaqnero: 

black   velvet   trousers  open  from  knee,  over  white  trousers  ;  laced 

black  velvet  jacket,   and  broad  white  sombrero:  large  silver  spurs. 

Second  dress  :  miner's  white  duck  jumper,  and  white  duck  trousers  ; 

(sailor's)   straw   hat.     Third   dress  :   fashionable   morning   costume. 

Fourth  dress  :  full  evening  dress. 
JOHN  OAKHURST. — First  dress  :  riding-dress,  black,  elegantly  fitting. 

Second  and  third  dress  :  fashionable.     Fourth  dress  :  full  evening 

dress. 
COL.   STARBOTTLE. — First   dress :  blue  double-breasted    frock,   and 

white  "  strapped  "  trousers  ;  white  hat.     Second  dress  :  same  coat, 

blue   trousers,  and   black   broad-brimmed  felt   hat;   cane,  semper; 

ruffles,  semper.     Third  dress  :  the  same.     Fourth  dress  :  the  same, 

with  pumps. 

YORK. — Fashionable  morning  dress. 
JACKSON. — Business  suit. 

CONCHO. — First  dress  :  vaquero's  dress.     Second  dress  :  citizen's  dress. 
HOP  SING. — Dress  of  Chinese  coolie  :  dark-blue  blouse,  and  dark-blue 

drawers  gathered  at  ankles  ;  straw  conical  hat,  and  wooden  sabots. 
DON  Josfe. — First  dress  :  serape,  black,  with  gold  embroidery.    Second 

dress  :    fashionable    black   suit,    with   broad-brimmed     black    stiff 

sombrero. 
OLD  MORTON.— First,   second,  third,  and  fourth  dress :  black,  stiff, 

with  white  cravat. 

CAPPER. — Ordinary  dress  of  period. 
Miss  MARY. — First  dress  :  tasteful  calico  morning  dress.     Second  and 

third  dress  :    lady's  walking-costume — fashionable.     Fourth  dress  : 

full  dress. 
DONA  JOVITA. — First  dress  :  handsome  Spanish  dress,  with  mania. 

Second  dress  :  more  elaborate,  same  quality. 
THE  DUCHESS. — First  dress  :  elaborate  but   extravagant   fashionable 

costume.     Second  dress  :  travelling  dress. 
MANUELA. — The  saya  y  mania;  white  waist,   and  white  or  black 

skirt,  with  flowers. 


Ctoo  a^en  of  @>antig 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  i.  —  Courtyard  and  Corridors  of  the  Rancho. 
MANUEL  A  [arranging  supper-table  in  corridor  •,  L., 


There  !  Tortillas,  chocolate,  olives,  and  —  the  whisky  of 
the  Americans  !  And  supper's  ready.  But  why  Don  Jose' 
chooses  to-night,  of  all  nights,  with  this  heretic  fog  lying 
over  the  Mission  Hills  like  a  wet  serape,  to  take  his  supper 
out  here,  the  saints  only  know.  Perhaps  it's  some  distrust 
of  his  madcap  daughter,  the  Dona  Jovita  ;  perhaps  to  watch 
her  —  who  knows  ?  And  now  to  find  Diego.  Ah,  here  he 
comes.  So  !  The  old  story.  He  is  getting  Dona  Jovita's 
horse  ready  for  another  madcap  journey.  Ah  !  [Retires  to 
table.} 

Enter  cautiously  from  corridor,  L.,  SANDY  MORTON,  carrying 
lady's  saddle  and  blanket;  starts  on  observing  MANUELA, 
and  hastily  hides  saddle  and  blanket  in  recess. 

Sandy  \aside\  She's  alone.  I  reckon  the  old  man's  at 
his  siesta  yet.  Ef  he'll  only  hang  onto  that  snooze  ten 
minutes  longer,  I'll  manage  to  let  that  gal  Jovita  slip  out 
to  that  yer  fandango,  and  no  questions  asked. 

Manuela  [calling  SANDY].     Diego  ! 

Sandy  [aside,  without  heeding  her\.  That's  a  sweet  voice 
for  a  serenade.  Round,  full,  high-shouldered,  and  calkilated 


312  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

to  fetch  a  man  every  time.  Only  thar  ain't,  to  my  sartain 
knowledge,  one  o'  them  chaps  within  a  mile  of  the  rancho. 
[Laughs.] 

Manuela.     Diego ! 

Sandy  [aside]  Oh,  go  on !  That's  the  style  o'  them 
Greasers.  They'll  stand  rooted  in  their  tracks,  and  yell 
for  a  chap  without  knowin'  whether  he's  in  sight  or  sound. 

Manuela  [approaching  Sandy  impatiently].  Diego  ! 

Sandy  [starting,  aside].  The  devil  !  Why,  that's  me  she's 
after.  [Laughs.]  I  clean  disremembered  that  when  I  kem 
yer  I  tole  those  chaps  my  name  was  James, — James  Smith 
[laughs],  and  thet  they  might  call  me  "  Jim."  And  De-a- 
go's  their  lingo  for  Jim.  [Aloud.']  Well,  my  beauty,  De-a- 
go  it  is.  Now,  wot's  up? 

Manuela.     Eh  ?  no  sabe  ! 

Sandy.     Wot's  your  little  game?     [Embraces  her] 

Manuela  [aside,  and  recoiling  coquettishly].  Mother  of 
God  !  He  must  be  drunk  again.  These  Americans  have 
no  time  for  love  when  they  are  sober.  [_Aloud  and  coquet 
tishly]  Let  me  go,  Diego.  Don  Jos£  is  coming.  He  has 
sent  for  you.  He  takes  his  supper  to-night  on  the  corridor. 
Listen,  Diego.  He  must  not  see  you  thus.  You  have  been 
drinking  again.  I  will  keep  you  from  him.  I  will  say  you 
are  not  well. 

Sandy.  Couldn't  you,  my  darling,  keep  him  from  me? 
Couldn't  you  make  him  think  he  was  sick  ?  Couldn't  you 
say  he's  exposin'  his  precious  health  by  sittin'  out  thar  to 
night  ;  thet  ther's  chills  and  fever  in  every  breath  ?  [Aside] 
Ef  the  old  Don  plants  himself  in  that  chair,  that  gal's 
chances  for  goin'  out  to-night  is  gone  up. 

Manuela.  Never.  He  would  suspect  at  once.  Listen, 
Diego.  If  Don  Jose*  does  not  know  that  his  daughter  steals 
away  with  you  to  meet  some  caballero,  some  lover, — you 
understand,  Diego, — it  is  because  he  does  not  know,  or 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  313 

would  not  seem  to  know,  what  every  one  else  in  the  rancho 
knows.  Have  a  care,  foolish  Diego  !  If  Don  Josd  is  old 
and  blind,  look  you,  friend,  we  are  not.  You  understand  ? 

Sandy  [aside].  What  the  devil  does  she  expect? — 
money  ?  No !  [Aloud.']  Look  yer,  Manuela,  you  ain't 
goin'  to  blow  on  that  young  gal !  [Putting  his  arm  around 
her  waist.']  Allowin'  that  she  hez  a  lover,  thar  ain't  nothin* 
onnateral  in  thet,  bein'  a  purty  sort  o'  gal.  Why,  suppose 
somebody  should  see  you  and  me  together  like  this,  and 
should  just  let  on  to  the  old  man. 

Manuela.  Hush  !  [Disengaging  herself.']  Hush  !  He  is 
coming.  Let  me  go,  Diego.  It  is  Don  Jos£  ! 

Enter  DON  Josi,  who  walks  gravely  to  the  table,  and  seats 
himself.     MANUELA  retires  to  table. 

Sandy  [aside].  I  wonder  if  he  saw  us.  I  hope  he  did  : 
it  would  shut  that  Manuela's  mouth  for  a  month  of  Sundays. 
[Laughs.']  God  forgive  me  for  it !  I've  done  a  heap  of 
things  for  that  young  gal  Dona  Jovita ;  but  this  yer  gittin' 
soft  on  the  Greaser  maid-servant  to  help  out  the  misses,  is  a 
little  more  than  Sandy  Morton  bargained  fur. 

Don  Jose  [to  MANUELA].  You  can  retire.  Diego  will 
attend  me.  [Looks  at  DIEGO  attentively.'] 

\_Exit  MANUELA. 

Sandy  [aside].  Diegb  will  attend  him !  Why,  blast  his 
yeller  skin,  does  he  allow  that  Sandy  Morton  hired  out  as  a 
purty  waiter-gal?  Because  I  calkilated  to  feed  his  horses, 
it  ain't  no  reason  thet  my  dooty  to  animals  don't  stop  thar. 
Pass  his  hash  !  [Turns  to  follow  MANUELA,  but  stopsJ] 
Hello,  Sandy  !  wot  are  ye  doinj,  eh  ?  You  ain't  going  back 
on  Miss  Jovita,  and  jest  spile  that  gal's  chances  to  git  out 
to-night,  on'y  to  teach  that  God-forsaken  old  gov'ment  mule 
manners  ?  No  !  I'll  humour  the  old  man,  and  keep  one 


314  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

eye  out  for  the  gal.     [Comes  to  table,  and  leans  familiarly 
over  the  back  of  DON  Josh's  chair.] 

Don  Jose  [aside].  He  seems  insulted  and  annoyed.  His 
manner  strengthens  my  worst  suspicions.  He  has  not 
expected  this.  [Aloud.]  Chocolate,  Diego. 

Sandy  [leaning  over  table  carelessly].  Yes,  I  reckon  it's 
somewhar  thar. 

Don  Jose  [aside].  He  is  unused  to  menial  labour.  If  I 
should  be  right  in  my  suspicions !  if  he  really  were  Dona 
Jovita's  secret  lover  !  This  gallantry  with  the  servants  only 
a  deceit !  Bueno  !  I  will  watch  him.  [Aloud]  Chocolate, 
Diego  ! 

Sandy  [aside].  I  wonder  if  the  old  fool  reckons  I'll  pour 
it  out.  Well,  seein's  he's  the  oldest.  [Pours  chocolate 
awkwardly ',  and  spills  it  on  the  table  and  DON  JosiL] 

Don  Jose  [aside].  He  is  embarrassed.  I  am  right 
[Aloud]  Diego ! 

Sandy  [leaning  confidentially  over  DON  Josh's  chair]. 
Well,  old  man  ? 

Don  Jose.  Three  months  ago  my  daughter  the  Dona 
Jovita  picked  you  up,  a  wandering  vagabond,  in  the  streets 
of  the  Mission.  [Aside]  He  does  not  seem  ashamed. 
[Aloud]  She — she — ahem  !  The  aguardiente,  Diego. 

Sandy  [aside]  That  means  the  whisky.  It's  wonderful 
how  quick  a  man  learns  Spanish.  [Passes  the  bottle,  fills 
DON  Josh's  glass,  and  then  his  own.  DON  Jos£  recoils  in 
astonishment.  I  looks  toward  ye,  ole  man.  [Tosses  off 
liquor] 

Don  Jose  [aside]  This  familiarity  !  He  is  a  gentleman. 
Bueno  I  [Aloud]  She  was  thrown  from  her  horse;  her 
skirt  caught  in  th?  stirrup ;  she  was  dragged ;  you  saved 
her  life.  You 

Sandy  [interrupting,  confidentially  drawing  a  chair  to  the 
table,  and  seating  himself].  Look  yer  !  Ill  tell  you  all 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  315 

about  it.  It  wasn't  that  gal's  fault,  ole  man.  The  hoss 
shied  at  me,  lying  drunk  in  a  ditch,  you  see;  the  hoss 
backed,  the  girth  broke ;  it  warn't  in  human  natur  for  her 
to  keep  her  seat,  and  that  gal  rides  like  an  angel ;  but  the 
mustang  throwed  her.  Well,  I  sorter  got  in  the  way  o'  thet 
hoss,  and  it  stopped.  Hevin'  bin  the  cause  o'  the  hoss 
shyin',  for  I  reckon  I  didn't  look  much  like  an  angel  lyin'  in 
that  ditch,  it  was  about  the  only  squar  thing  for  me  to  waltz 
in  and  help  the  gal.  Thar,  thet's  about  the  way  the  thing 
pints.  Now,  don't  you  go  and  hold  that  agin  her  ! 

Don  Jose.  Well,  well !  She  was  grateful.  She  has  a 
strange  fondness  for  you  Americans  ;  and  at  her  solicitation 
I  gave  you — you,  an  unknown  vagrant — employment  here 
as  groom.  You  comprehend,  Diego.  I,  Don  Jose  Castro, 
proprietor  of  this  rancho,  with  an  hundred  idle  vaqueros  on 
my  hands, — I  made  a  place  for  you. 

Sandy  [meditatively].     Umph. 

Don  Jose.  You  said  you  would  reform.  How  have 
you  kept  your  word  ?  You  were  drunk  last  Wednesday. 

Sandy.     Thet's  so. 

Don  Jose.     And  again  last  Saturday. 

Sandy  [slowly].  Look  yer,  ole  man,  don't  ye  be  too 
hard  on  me :  that  was  the  same  old  drunk. 

Don  Jose.  I  am  in  no  mood  for  trifling.  Hark  ye, 
friend  Diego.  You  have  seen,  perhaps, — who  has  not? — 
that  I  am  a  fond,  an  indulgent  father.  But  even  my  con 
sideration  for  my  daughter's  strange  tastes  and  follies  has 
its  limit.  Your  conduct  is  a  disgrace  to  the  rancho.  You 
must  go. 

Sandy  [meditatively].     Well,  I  reckon,  perhaps  I'd  better. 

Don  Jose  [aside].  His  coolness  is  suspicious.  Can  it  be 
that  he  expects  the  girl  will  follow  him  ?  Mother  of  God ! 
perhaps  it  has  been  already  planned  between  them.  Good ! 
Thank  Heaven  I  can  end  it  here.  [Aloud.']  Diego. 


3 1 6  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Sandy.     Old  man. 

Don  Jose.  For  my  daughter's  sake,  you  understand, — for 
her  sake, — I  am  willing  to  try  you  once  more.  Hark  ye  ! 
My  daughter  is  young,  foolish,  and  romantic.  I  have  reason 
to  believe,  from  her  conduct  lately,  that  she  has  contracted 
an  intimacy  with  some  Americano,  and  that  in  her  ignorance, 
her  foolishness,  she  has  allowed  that  man  to  believe  that  he 
might  aspire  to  her  hand.  Good  !  Now  listen  to  me. 
You  shall  stay  in  her  service.  You  shall  find  out, — you  are 
in  her  confidence, — you  shall  find  out  this  American,  this 
adventurer,  this  lover  if  you  please,  of  the  Dona  Jovita  my 
daughter ;  and  you  will  tell  him  this, — you  will  tell  him  that 
a  union  with  him  is  impossible,  forbidden ;  that  the  hour 
she  attempts  it,  without  my  consent,  she  is  penniless ;  that 
this  estate,  this  rancho,  passes  into  the  hands  of  the  Holy 
Church,  where  even  your  laws  cannot  reach  it. 

Sandy  [leaning  familiarly  over  the  table\.  But  suppose 
that  he  sees  that  little  bluff,  and  calls  ye. 

Don  Jose.     I  do  not  comprehend  you  \coldly\. 

Sandy.  Suppose  he  loves  that  gal,  and  will  take  her 
as  she  stands,  without  a  cent,  or  hide  or  hair  of  yer  old 
cattle. 

Don  Jose  [scornfully].  Suppose — a  miracle  !  Hark  ye, 
Diego !  It  is  now  five  years  since  I  have  known  your 
countrymen,  these  smart  Americanos.  I  have  yet  to  know 
when  love,  sentiment,  friendship,  was  worth  any  more  than 
a  money  value  in  your  market. 

Sandy  \truculently  and  drunkenly].  You  hev,  hev  ye  ? 
Well,  look  yar,  ole  man.  Suppose  I  refuse.  Suppose  I'd 
rather  go  than  act  as  a  spy  on  that  young  gal  your  darter ! 
Suppose  that — hie — allowin'  she's  my  friend,  I'd  rather 
starve  in  the  gutters  of  the  Mission  than  stand  between  her 
and  the  man  she  fancies.  Hey  ?  Suppose  I  would — damn 
me  1  Suppose  I'd  see  you  and  your  derned  old  rancho  in 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  317 

— t'other  place — hie — damn  me.  You  hear  me,  ole  man  ! 
That's  the  kind  o'  man  I  am — damn  me. 

Don  Jose  [aside,  rising  contemptuously^  It  is  as  I  suspected. 
Traitor.  Ingrate  !  Satisfied  that  his  scheme  has  failed,  he 
is  ready  to  abandon  her.  And  this — this  is  the  man  for 
whom  she  has  been  ^ready  to  sacrifice  everything, — her 
home,  her  father  !  [Aloud,  coldly].  Be  it  so,  Diego :  you 
shall  go. 

Sandy  [soberly  and  seriously,  after  a  pause\.  Well,  I 
reckon  I  had  better.  [JRtstng.~\  I've  a  few  duds,  old  man, 
to  put  up.  It  won't  take  me  long.  [Goes  to  L.,  and  pauses.] 

Don  Jose  [aside\.  Ah  !  he  hesitates  !  He  is  changing  his 
mind.  [SANDY  returns  slowly  to  table,  pours  out  a  glass  of 
liquor,  nods  to  DON  JOS:E,  and  drinks. ,]  I  look  towards  ye, 
ole  man.  Adios  !  [Exit  SANDY. 

Don  JosL  His  coolness  is  perfect.  If  these  Americans 
are  cayotes  in  their  advances,  they  are  lions  in  retreat ! 
Bueno  !  I  begin  to  respect  him.  But  it  will  be  just  as  well 
to  set  Concho  to  track  him  to  the  Mission ;  and  I  will  see 
that  he  leaves  the  rancho  alone.  [Exit  Jos£. 

Enter  hurriedly  JOVITA  CASTRO,  in  riding  habit,  with 
whip. 

So !  Chiquita  not  yet  saddled,  and  that  spy  Concho 
haunting  the  plains  for  the  last  half-hour.  What  an  air  of 
mystery  !  Something  awful,  something  deliciously  dread 
ful,  has  happened  !  Either  my  amiable  drunkard  has 
forgotten  to  despatch  Concho  on  his  usual  fool's  errand,  orv 
he  is  himself  lying  helpless  in  some  ditch.  Was  there  ever 
a  girl  so  persecuted  ?  With  a  father  wrapped  in  mystery,  a 
lover  nameless  and  shrouded  in  the  obscurity  of  some,. 
Olympian  height,  and  her  only  confidant  and  messenger  a 
Bacchus  instead  of  a  Mercury !  Heigh  ho  And  in  an- 


3 1 8  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

other  hour  Don  Juan — he  told  me  I  might  call  him  John— 
will  be  waiting  for  me  outside  the  convent  wall !  What  if 
Diego  fails  me  ?  To  go  there  alone  would  be  madness  ! 
Who  else  would  be  as  charmingly  unconscious  and  inatten 
tive  as  this  American  vagabond  !  [Gees  to.  L.]  Ah,  my 
saddle  and  blanket  hidden !  He  has  been  interrupted ! 
Some  one  has  been  watching.  This  freak  of  my  father's 
means  something.  And  to-night,  of  all  nights,  the  night 
that  Oakhurst  was  to  disclose  himself,  and  tell  me  all ! 
What  is  to  be  done  ?  Hark  !  [DIEGO,  without,  singing.] 

"  Oh,  here's  your  aguardiente. 
Drink  it  down  !  " 

Jovita.     «It  is  Diego ;  and,  Mother  of  God  !  drunk  again  ! 
Enter  SANDY,  carrying  pack,  intoxicated ;  staggers  to  centre^ 
and,  observing  JOVITA,  takes  off  his  hat  respectfully. 

Jovita  [shaking  him  by  the  shoulders  passionately].  Diego  ! 
How  dare  you  !  And  at  such  a  time  ! 

Sandy  [with  drunken  solemnity].  Miss  Jovita,  did  ye  ever 
know  me  to  be  drunk  afore  at  such  a  time  ? 

Jovita.     No. 

Sandy.  Zactly  so.  It's  abnormal.  And  it  means — the 
game's  up. 

Jovita.  I  do  not  understand.  For  the  love  of  God, 
Diego,  be  plain  ! 

Sandy  [solemnly  and  drunkenly]  When  I  say  your  game's 
up,  I  mean  the  old  man  knows  it  all.  You're  blowed  upon. 
Hearken,  miss !  [seriously  and  soberly].  Your  father  knows 
all  that  I  know ;  but,  as  it  wasn't  my  business  to  interfere 
with,  I  hev  sorter  helped  along.  He  knows  that  you  meet 
a  stranger,  an  American,  in  these  rides  with  me. 

Jovita  [^passionately]  Ingrate  !  You  have  not  dared  to  tell 
him  !  [S  izing  him  by  the  collar,  and  threatening  him  with 
the  horsewhip] 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  3 1 9 

Sandy  [rising  with  half-drunken^  half-sober  solemnity]. 
One  minit,  miss  !  one  minit  !  Don't  ye  !  don't  ye  do  that ! 
Ef  ye  forget  (and  I  don't  blame  ye  for  it),  ef  ye  forget  that 
I'm  a  man,  don't  ye,  don't  ye  forget  that  you're  a  woman ! 
Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down,  so  !  Now,  ef  ye'll  kindly  re 
member,  miss,  I  never  saw  this  yer  man,  yer  lover.  Ef  ye'll 
recollect,  miss,  whenever  you  met  him,  I  allers  hung  back 
and  waited  round  in  the  mission  or  in  the  fields  beyond  for 
ye,  and  allowed  ye  to  hev  yer  own  way,  it  bein'  no  business 
o'  mine.  Thar  isn't  a  man  on  the  ranch,  who,  ef  he'd  had  a 
mind  to  watch  ye,  wouldn't  hev  known  more  about  yer  lover 
than  I  do. 

Jovita  [aside].  He  speaks  truly.  He  always  kept  in  the 
background.  Even  Don  Juan  never  knew  that  I  had  an 
attendant  until  I  told  him.  [A!oud.~\  I  made  a  mistake, 
Diego.  I  was  hasty.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  He  is  waiting 
for  me  even  now. 

Sandy.  Well  [with  drunken  gravity],  ef  ye  can't  go  to 
him,  I  reckon  it's  the  squar  thing  for  him  to  come  to  ye. 

Jovita.     Recollect  yourself,  Diego.     Be  a  man  ! 

Sandy.  Thash  jus  war  I  say.  Let  him  be  a  man,  and 
come  to  ye  here.  Let  him  ride  up  to  this  ranch  like  a  man, 
and  call  out  to  yer  father  that  he'll  take  ye  jist  as  ye  are, 
without  the  land.  And  if  the  old  man  allows,  rather  than 
hev  ye  marry  that  stranger,  he'll  give  this  yer  place  to  the 
Church,  why,  let  him  do  it,  and  be  damned. 

fovita  [recoiling,  aside\  So !  That  is  their  plan.  Don 
Jose  has  worked  on  the  fears  or  the  cupidity  of  this 
drunken  ingrate. 

Sandy  [with  drunken  submission].  Ye  was  speaking  to  me, 
miss.  Ef  ye'll  take  my  advice, — a  drunken  man's  advice, 
miss, — ye'll  say  to  that  lover  of  yours,  ef  he's  afeard  to  come 
for  ye  here,  to  take  ye  as  ye  stand,  he  ain't  no  man  for  ye. 
And,  ontil  he  does,  ye'll  do  as  the  old  man  says.  Fur  ef 


320  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

I  do  say  it,  miss, — and  thar  ain't  no  love  lost  between  us, — • 
he's  a  good  father  to  ye.  It  ain't  every  day  that  a  gal  kin 
afford  to  swap  a  father  like  that,  as  *she  does  know,  fur  the 
husband  that  she  don't !  He's  a  proud  old  fool,  miss ;  but 
to  ye,  to  ye,  he's  clar  grit  all  through. 

Jovita  \passionately ,  aside].  Tricked,  fooled,  like  a  child  ! 
and  through  the  means  of  this  treacherous,  drunken  tool. 
[Stamping  her  foot.}  Ah!  we  shall  see!  You  are  wise, 
you  are  wise,  Don  Jose ;  but  your  daughter  is  not  a 
novice,  nor  a  helpless  creature  of  the  Holy  Church. 
[Passionately.]  I'll — I'll  become  a  Protestant  to-morrow  ! 

Sandy  [unheeding  her  passion,  and  becoming  more  earnest 
and  self -possessed'].  Ef  ye  hed  a  father,  miss,  ez  instead  o' 
harkinin'  to  your  slightest  wish,  and  surroundin'  ye  with 
luxury,  hed  made  your  infancy  a  struggle  for  life  among 
strangers,  and  your  childhood  a  disgrace  and  a  temptation ; 
ef  he  had  left  ye  with  no  company  but  want,  with  no  com 
panions  but  guilt,  with  no  mother  but  suffering ;  ef  he  had 
made  your  home,  this  home,  so  unhappy,  so  vile,  so  terrible, 
so  awful,  that  the  crowded  streets  and  gutters  of  a  great  city 
was  something  to  fly  to  for  relief;  ef  he  had  made  his 
presence,  his  very  name, — your  name,  miss,  allowin'  it  was 
your  father, — ef  he  had  made  that  presence  so  hateful,  that 
name  so  infamous,  that  exile,  that  flyin'  to  furrin'  parts,  that 
wanderin'  among  strange  folks  ez  didn't  know  ye,  was  the 
only  way  to  make  life  endurable  ;  and  ef  he'd  given  ye, — I 
mean  this  good  old  man  Don  Jose,  miss, — ef  he'd  given  ye  as 
part  of  yer  heritage  a  taint,  a  weakness  in  yer  very  blood,  a 
fondness  for  a  poison,  a  poison  that  soothed  ye  like  a  vam 
pire  bat  and  sucked  yer  life-blood  [seizing  her  arm\  ez  it 
soothed  ye  ;  ef  this  curse  that  hung  over  ye  dragged  ye 
down  day  by  day,  till  hating  him,  loathing  him,  ye  saw  yer- 
self  day  by  day  becoming  more  and  more  like  him,  till  ye 
knew  that  his  fate  was  yours,  and  yours  his, — why  then, 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  321 

Miss  Jovita  [rising  with  an  hysterical,  drunken  laugK\,  why 
then,  I'd  run  away  with  ye  myself, — I  would,  damn  me  ! 

Jovita  [who  has  been  withdrawing  from  him  scornfully}. 
Well  acted,  Diego.  Don  Jose  should  have  seen  his  pupil. 
Trust  me,  my  father  will  reward  you.  [Aside.]  And  yet 
there  were  tears  in  his  drunken  eyes.  Bah  !  it  is  the  liquor  ; 
he  is  no  longer  sane.  And,  either  hypocrite  or  imbecile, 
he  is  to  be  trusted  no  longer.  But  where  and  why  is  he 
going?  [Aloud.]  You  are  leaving  us,  Diego. 

Sandy  [quietly].  Well,  the  old  man  and  me  don't  get  on 
together. 

Jovita  [scornfully].  Bueno  !  I  see.  Then  you  abandon 
me  ? 

Sandy  [quickly]  To  the  old  man,  miss, — not  the  young 
one.  [  Walks  to  the  table  and  begins  to  four  out  liquor.'] 

Jovita  [angrily].  You  would  not  dare  to  talk  to  me  thus 
if  John  Oakhurst — ah  !  [Checking  herself.] 

Sandy  {drops  glass  on  table,  hurries  to  centre,  and  seizes 
DONA  JOVITA].  Eh  !  Wot  ?  Wot  name  did  you  say  ?  [Looks 
at  her  amazed  and  bewildered^ 

Jovita  [terrified,  aside\.  Mother  of  God  !  what  have  I 
done?  Broken  my  sacred  pledge  to  keep  his  name  secret. 
No  !  no  !  Diego  did  not  hear  me  !  Surely  this  wretched 
drunkard  does  not  know  him.  [Aloud.']  Nothing.  I  said 
nothing  :  I  mentioned  no  name. 

Sandy  [still  amazed,  frightened,  and  bewildered,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  forehead  slowly].  Ye  mentioned  no  name  ? 
Surely  I  am  wild,  crazed.  Tell  me,  miss — ye  didn't, — I 
know  ye  didn't,  but  I  thought  it  sounded  like  it — ye  didn't 
mention  the  name  of — of — of — John  Oakhurst  ? 

Jovita  [hurriedly].  No,  of  course  not.  You  terrify  me, 
Diego.  You  are  wild. 

Sandy  [dropping  her  hand  with  a  sigh  of  relief].  No, 
no  !  In  course  ye  didn't.  I  was  wild,  miss,  wild ;  this 

VOL.  i.  X 


322  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

drink  has  confused  me  'yer.  [Pointing  to  Ins  head'\  There 
are  times  when  I  hear  that  name,  miss, — times  when  I  see 
his  face.  [Sadly. ~\  But  is  when  I've  took  too  much — 
too  much.  I'll  drink  no  more — no  more  ! — to-night — to 
night  !  [Drops  his  head  slowly  in  his  hands.  ~\ 

Jovita  [looking  at  DIEGO,  aside].  Really  I'm  feeling 
very  uncomfortable.  I'd  like  to  ask  a  question  of  this 
maniac.  But  nonsense  !  Don  Juan  gave  me  to  understand 
Oakhurst  wasn't  his  real  name ;  that  is,  he  intimated 
there  was  something  dreadful  and  mysterious  about  it  that 
mustn't  be  told, — something  that  would  frighten  people. 
Holy  Virgin  !  it  has  !  Why,  this  reckless  vagabond  here 
is  pale  and  agitated.  Don  Juan  shall  explain  this  mystery 
to-night.  But  then,  how  shall  I  see  him  ?  Ah  !  I  have  it. 
The  night  of  the  last  festa,  when  I  could  not  leave  the 
rancho,  he  begged  me  to  show  a  light  from  the  flat  roof  of 
the  upper  corridor,  that  he  might  know  I  was  thinking  of  him, 
— dear  fellow  !  He  will  linger  to-night  at  the  Mission  ;  he 
will  see  the  light ;  he  will  know  that  I  have  not  forgotten. 
He  will  approach  the  rancho  ;  I  shall  manage  to  slip  away 
at  midnight  to  the  ruined  Mission.  I  shall — ah  !  it  is  my 
father !  Holy  Virgin,  befriend  me  now  with  self-possession. 
[Stands  quietly  at  L.,  looking  toward  SANDY,  who  stilt, 
remains  buried  in  thought,  as — 

Enter  DON  Josi ;  regards  his  daughter  and  DIEGO  with 
a  sarcastic  smile. 

Don  Jose  \aside\.  Bueno !  It  is  as  I  expected, — an 
explanation,  an  explosion,  a  lovers'  quarrel,  an  end  to 
romance.  From  his  looks  I  should  say  she  has  been  teach 
ing  the  adventurer  a  lesson.  Good  !  I  could  embrace  her. 
[Crosses  to  SANDY — aloud.~\  You  still  here  ! 

Sandy  [rising  with  a  start].     Yes !    I — a — I  was  only 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  323 

taking  leave  of  Miss  Jovita  that  hez  bin  kind  to  me.  She's 
a  good  gal,  ole  man,  and  won't  be  any  the  worse  when  I'm 
gone. — Good-by,  Miss  Jovita  [extending  his  hand]  I  wish 
ye  luck. 

Jovita  [coldly]  Adios,  friend  Diego.  [Aside,  hurriedly.} 
You  will  not  expose  my  secret  ? 

Sandy  [aside].  It  ain't  in  me,  miss.  [To  DON  Jos£, 
going]  Adios,  ole  man.  [Shouldering  his  pack] 

Don  Jose.  Adios,  friend  Diego.  [Formally]  May  good 
luck  attend  you  !  [Aside]  You  understand,  on  your  word 
as — as — as — a  gentleman  ! — you  have  no  further  communi 
cation  with  this  rancho,  or  aught  that  it  contains. 

Sandy  [gravely]  I  hear  ye,  ole  man.  Adios.  [Goes  to 
gateway,  but  pauses  at  table,  and  begins  to  Jill  a  glass  of 
aguardiente] 

Don  Jose  [aside,  looking  at  his  daughter]  I  could  embrace 
her  now.  She  is  truly  a  Castro.  [Aloud  to  JOVITA.]  Hark 
ye,  little  one !  I  have  news  that  will  please  you,  and — who 
knows  ?  perhaps  break  up  the  monotony  of  the  dull  life  of 
the  rancho.  To-night  come  to  me  two  famous  caballeros 
Americanos,  you  understand  :  they  will  be  here  soon,  even 
now.  Retire,  and  make  ready  to  receive  them.  [Exit 
JOVITA.] 

Don  Jose  [aside,  looking  at  SANDY].  He  lingers.  I  shall 
not  be  satisfied  until  Concho  has  seen  him  safely  beyond 
the  Mission  wall. 

Enter  CONCHO. 

Concho.  Two  caballeros  have  dismounted  in  the  corral, 
and  seek  the  honour  of  Don  Jose's  presence. 

Don  Jose.  Bueno  !  [Aside.\  Follow  that  fellow  beyond 
the  Mission.  [Aloud.]  Admit  the  strangers.  Did  they 
give  their  names  ? 


324  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Concha.  They  did,  Don  Jose, — Col.  Culpepper  Star- 
bottle  and  the  Don  Alexandro  Morton. 

Sandy  [dropping  glass  of  aguardiente,  and  staggering 
stupidly  to  the  centre,  confronting  DON  Jos£  and  CONCHO, 
still  holding  bottle}.  Eh  !  Wot  ?  Wot  name  did  you  say  ? 
[Looks  stupidly  and  amazedly  at  CONCHO  and  DON  JOSE, 
and  then  slowly  passes  his  hand  wer  his  forehead.  Then 
slowly  and  apologetically.^  I  axes  your  pardon,  Don  Jose, 
and  yours,  sir  [to  CONCHO],  but  I  thought  ye  called  me. 
No  ! — that  ez — I  mean — I  mean — I'm  a  little  off  color  here 
[pointing  to  his  head}.  I  don't  follow  suit — I — eh — eh  ! 
Oh  ! — ye'll  pardon  me,  sir,  but  thar's  names — perhaps  yer 
darter  will  remember  that  I  was  took  a  bit  ago  on  a  name 
— thar's  names  sortir  hangin'  round  me  'yer  [pointing  to  his 
head\,  that  I  thinks  I  hear — but  bein'  drunk — I  hopes  ye'll 
excoos  me.  Adios.  [Staggers  to  gateway,  CONCHO  follow 
ing.'} 

Concho  [aside}.  There  is  something  more  in  this  than 
Don  Jos£  would  have  known.  I'll  watch  Diego,  and  keep 
an  eye  on  Miss  Jovita  too. 

[Exit,  following  SANDY,  who,  in  exit,  jostles  against  COL. 
STARBOTTLE  entering,  who  stops  and  leans  exhaustedly  at 
the  wall  to  get  his  breath  ;  following  him  closely,  and  obli 
vious  of  SANDY  MORTON,  ALEXANDER  MORTON,  sen. 
Enter  COL.  STARBOTTLE  and  ALEXANDER  MORTON,  sen. 

SCENE  2. — The  Same. 

Col.  Starbottle  [entering,  to  DON  JOSE].  Overlooking  the 
insult  of — er — inebriated  individual,  whose  menial  position 
in  this— er — er — household  precludes  a  demand  for  per 
sonal  satisfaction,  sir,  I  believe  I  have  the  honour  of  address 
ing  Don  Jose  Castro.  Very  good,  sir.  Permit  me,  sir,  to 
introduce  myself  as  Col.  Culpepper  Starbottle — demn  me  I 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  325 

the  legal  adviser  of  Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  sen.,  and  I  may 
add,  sir,  the  friend  of  that  gentleman,  and  as  such,  sir— er 
— er — personally — personally  responsible. 

Alexander  Morton  \_puritanically  and  lugubriously].  As 
a  God-fearing  and  forgiving  Christian,  Mr.  Castro,  I  trust 
you  will  overlook  the  habitual  profanity  of  the  erring  but 
well-meaning  man,  who,  by  the  necessities  of  my  situation, 
accompanies  me.  I  am  the  person— a  helpless  sinner — 
mentioned  in  the  letters  which  I  believe  have  preceded 
me.  As  a  professing  member  of  the  Cumberland  Presby 
terian  Church,  I  have  ventured,  in  the  interest  of  works 
rather  than  faith,  to  overlook  the  plain  doctrines  of  the 
Church  in  claiming  sympathy  of  a  superstitious  Papist. 

Starbottle  \interrupting,  aside  to  ALEXANDER  MORTON], 
Ahem  !  ahem  !  \Aloudto  DON  JOSE.]  My  friend's  manner, 
sir,  reminds  me  of — er — er — Ram  Bootgum  Sing,  first 
secretary  of  Turkish  legation  at  Washington  in  '45  ;  most 
remarkable  man — demn  me — most  remarkable — and  warm 
personal  friend.  Challenged  Tod  Robinson  for  putting  him 
next  to  Hebrew  banker  at  dinner,  with  remark — demn  me 
— that  they  were  both  believers  in  the  profit ! — he,  he  ! 
Amusing,  perhaps;  irreverent,  certainly.  Fought  with 
cimeters.  Second  pass,  Ram  divided  Tod  in  two  pieces 
— fact,  sir — just  here  \_pointing\  in — er — er — regions  of  moral 
emotions.  Upper  half  called  to  me, — said  to  me  warningly 
— last  words — never  forget  it, — "Star," — always  called  me 
Star, — "  Respect  man's  religious  convictions."  Legs  dead ; 
emotion  confined  to  upper  part  of  body — pathetic  picture. 
Ged,  sir,  something  to  be  remembered  ! 

Don  Jose  [with  grave  Spanish  courtesy].  You  are  wel 
come,  gentlemen,  to  the  rancho  of  the  Blessed  Fisherman. 
Your  letters,  with  their  honourable  report,  are  here.  Believe 
me,  senores,  in  your  modesty  you  have  forgotten  to  mention 


o 


26  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 


your  strongest  claim  to  the  hospitality  of  my  house, — the 
royal  right  of  strangers. 

Morton.  Angels  before  this  have  been  entertained  as 
strangers,  says  the  Good  Book ;  and  that,  I  take  it,  is  your 
authority  for  this  ceremoniousness,  which  else  were  but  lip- 
service  and  Papist  airs.  But  I  am  here  in  the  performance 
of  a  duty,  Mr.  Castro, — the  duty  of  a  Christian  father.  I 
am  seeking  a  prodigal  son.  I  am  seeking  him  in  his  wine- 
husks  and  among  his  harl — 

Starbottle  [interrupting].  A  single  moment.  \To  DON 
Jos£.]  Permit  me  to — er — er — explain.  As  my  friend  Mr. 
Morton  states,  we  are,  in  fact,  at  present  engaged  in — er — 
er — quest — er — pilgrimage  that  possibly  to  some,  unless 
deterred  by  considerations  of  responsibility — personal 
responsibility — sir — Ged,  sir,  might  be  looked  upon  as 
visionary,  enthusiastic,  sentimental,  fanatical.  We  are 
seeking  a  son,  or,  as  my  friend  tersely  and  scripturally 
expresses  it — er — er — prodigal  son.  I  say  scripturally,  sir, 
and  tersely,  but  not,  you  understand  it,  literally,  not,  I  may 
add,  sir,  legally.  Ged,  sir,  as  a  precedent,  I  admit  we  are 
wrong.  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  sir,  the — er — Prodigal 
Son  sought  his  own  father.  To  be  frank,  sir, — and  Ged, 
sir,  if  Culpepper  Starbottle  has  a  fault,  it  is  frankness,  sir. 
As  Nelse  Buckthorne  said  to  me  in  Nashville  in  '47,  "  You 
would  infer,  Col.  Starbottle,  that  I  equivocate."  I  replied, 
"  I  do,  sir ;  and  permit  me  to  add  that  equivocation  has  all 
the  guilt  of  a  lie  with  cowardice  superadded."  The  next 
morning  at  nine  o'clock,  Ged,  sir,  he  gasped  to  me — he  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  hole  through  his  left  lung  just  here 
[illustrating  with  DON  Jos£'s  coat\ — he  gasped,  "If  you 
have  a  merit,  Star,  above  others,  it  is  frankness  ! "  his  last 
words,  sir, — demn  me.  ...  To  be  frank,  sir,  years  ago,  in 
the  wild  exuberance  of  youth,  the  son  of  this  gentleman  left 
his — er — er — er — boyhood's  home,  owing  to  an  innocent 


T*wo  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  327 

but  natural  misunderstanding  with  the  legal  protector  of  his 
youth — 

Morton  \interrupting  gravely  and  demurely].  Driven  from 
home  by  my  own  sinful  and  then  unregenerate  hand — 

Starbottle  \_quickly\.  One  moment,  a  simple  moment. 
We  will  not  weary  you  with — er — er — history,  or  the 
vagaries  of  youth.  He — er — came  to  California  in  '49.  A 
year  ago,  touched  by — er — er — parental  emotion  and  solici 
tude,  my  friend  resolved  to  seek  him  here.  Believing  that 
the — er — er — lawlessness  of — er — er — untrammelled  youth 
and  boyish  inexperience  might  have  led  him  into  some 
trifling  indiscretion,  we  have  sought  him  successively  in 
hospitals,  almshouses,  reformatories,  State's  prisons,  lunatic 
and  inebriate  asylums,  and — er — er — even  on  the  monu 
mental  inscriptions  of  the — er — er — country  churchyards. 
We  have  thus  far,  I  grieve  to  say,  although  acquiring  much 
and  valuable  information  of  a  varied  character  and  interest, 
as  far  as  the  direct  matter  of  our  search, — we  have  been,  I 
think  I  may  say,  unsuccessful.  Our  search  has  been  at 
tended  with  the — er — disbursement  of  some  capital  under 
my — er — er — direction,  which,  though  large,  represents 
quite  inadequately  the — er — er — earnestness  of  our  en 
deavours. 

Enter  MANUELA. 

Manuela  \to  DON  Jos£].  The  Dona  Jovita  is  waiting  to 
receive  you. 

Don  Jose  [to  MORTON].  You  shall  tell  me  further  of  your 
interesting  pilgrimage  hereafter.  At  present,  my  daughter 
awaits  us  to  place  this  humble  roof  at  your  disposal.  I  am 
a  widower,  Don  Alexandro,  like  yourself.  When  I  say 
that,  like  you,  I  have  an  only  child,  and  that  I  love  her, 
you  will  understand  how  earnest  is  my  sympathy.  This 


328  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

way,  gentlemen.     [Leading  to  door  in  corridor,  and  awaiting 
them] 

Starbottk  [aside].  Umph  !  An  interview  with  lovely 
woman  means — er — intoxication,  but — er — er — no  liquor. 
It's  evident  that  the  Don  doesn't  drink,  Eh  !  [Catches 
sight  of  table  in  corridor •,  and  bottle]  Oh,  he  does,  but  some 
absurd  Spanish  formality  prevents  his  doing  the  polite  thing 
before  dinner.  [Aloud  to  DON  Jos£]  One  moment,  sir, 
one  moment.  If  you  will — er — er — pardon  the — er — seem 
ing  discourtesy,  for  which  I  am,  I  admit — er — personally 
responsible,  I  will  for  a  few  moments  enjoy  the — er — er — 
delicious  air  of  the  courtyard  and  the  beauties  of  Nature  as 
displayed  in  the — er — sunset.  I  will — er — rejoin  you  and 
the — er — er — ladies  a  moment  later. 

Don  Jose.  The  house  is  your  own,  sefior :  do  as  you 
will.  This  way,  Don  Alexandro. 

\Exit,  in  door  L.,  DON  JOSE  and  MORTON,  sen. 

Starbottk.  "Do  as  you  will."  Well,  I  don't  under 
stand  Spanish  ceremony,  but  that's  certainly  good  English. 
[Going  to  table.]  Eh !  \Smelling  decanter.]  Robinson 
County  whisky  !  Umph  !  I  have  observed  that  the  spirit 
of  American  institutions,  sir,  are  already  penetrating  the 
— er — er — superstitions  of — er — foreign  and  effete  civilisa 
tions.  [Pours  out  glass  of  whisky  and  drinks  ;  fours  again, 
and  observes  MANUELA  watching  him  respectfully.']  What  the 
devil  is  that  girl  looking  at  ?  Eh  !  [Puts  down  glass.] 

Manuela  [aside].  He  is  fierce  and  warlike.  Mother  of 
God  !  But  he  is  not  so  awful  as  that  grey-haired  caballero, 
who  looks  like  a  fasting  St.  Anthony.  And  he  loves 
aguardiente:  he  will  pity  poor  Diego  the  more.  [Aloud.] 
Ahem !  Sefior.  [Courtesies  cocjuettishly] 

Col.  Starbottle  [aside].  Oh,  I  see.  Ged  !  not  a  bad- 
looking  girl, — a  trifle  dark,  but  Southern,  and — er — tropical 
Ged,  Star,  Star,  this  won't  do,  sir;  no,  sir.  The  filial 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  329 

affections  of  ^Eneas  are  not  to  be  sacrificed  through  the 
blandishments  of — er — Dodo — I  mean  a  Dido. 

Manuela.  O  sefior,  you  are  kind,  you  are  good !  You 
are  an  Americano,  one  of  a  great  nation.  You  will  feel 
sympathy  for  a  poor  young  man, — a  mere  muchaco, — one  of 
your  own  race,  who  was  a  vaquero  here,  sefior.  He  has 
been  sent  away  from  us  here,  disgraced,  alone,  hungry, 
perhaps  penniless.  [  Wipes  her  eyes.] 

Col  Starbottle.  The  devil !  Another  prodigal.  [Aloud.} 
My  dear,  the  case  you  have  just  stated  would  appear  to  be 
the — er — er — normal  condition  of  the — er — youth  of 
America.  But  why  was  he  discharged?  [Pouring  out 
liquor} 

Manuela  \_demurely  glancing  at  the  Colonel}.  He  was  drunk, 
senor. 

Starbottle  [potently].  Drunkenness,  my  child,  which  is — 
er — weakness  in  the — er — er — gentleman,  in  the  subordinate 
is  a  crime.  What — er — excites  the  social  impulse  and 
exhilarates  the  fancy  of  the — er — master  of  the  house,  in 
the  performance  of  his  duty,  renders  the  servant  unfit  for  his. 
Legally  it  is  a  breach  of  contract.  I  should  give  it  as  my 
opinion, — for  which  I  am  personally  responsible, — that  your 
friend  Diego  could  not  recover.  Ged !  [aside.}  I  wonder 
if  this  scapegoat  could  be  our  black  sheep  ? 

Manuela.  But  that  was  not  all,  sefior.  It  was  an  excuse 
only.  He  was  sent  away  for  helping  our  young  lady  to  a 
cavalier.  '  He  was  discharged  because  he  would  not  be  a 
traitor  to  her.  He  was  sent  away  because  he  was  too  good, 
too  honourable — too —  \Bursts  out  crying} 

Starbottle  [aside].  Oh,  the  devil !  this  is  no  Sandy  Morton. 
[Coming  forward  gravely}  I  have  never  yet  analysed  the — 
er — er — character  of  the  young  gentleman  I  have  the  honour 
to  assist  in  restoring  to  his  family  and  society  j  but  judging — 
er — calmly — er — dispassionately,  from  my  knowledge  of  his 


330  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

own  father — from  what  the  old  gentleman  must  have  been . 
in  his  unregenerate  state,  and  knowing  what  he  is  now  in 
his  present  reformed  Christian  condition,  I  should  say  calmly 
and  deliberately  that  the  son  must  be  the  most  infernal  and 
accomplished  villain  unhung.  Ged,  I  have  a  thought,  an 
inspiration.  [To  MANUELA,  tapping  her  under  the  chin.]  I 
see,  my  dear ;  a  lover,  ha,  ha !  Ah,  you  rogue  !  Well,  well, 
we  will  talk  of  this  again.  I  will — er — er — interest  myself 
in  this  Diego.  [Exit  MANUELA.] 

Starbottle  [solus].  How  would  it  do  to  get  up  a  prodigal  ? 
Umph  !  Something  must  be  done  soon  :  the  old  man  grows 
languid  in  his  search.  My  position  as  a  sinecure  is — er — in 
peril.  A  prodigal  ready-made  !  But  could  I  get  a  scoundrel 
bad  enough  to  -satisfy  the  old  man  ?  Ged,  that's  serious. 
Let  me  see  :  he  admits  that  he  is  unable  to  recognise  his 
own  son  in  face,  features,  manner,  or  speech.  Good  !  If 
I  could  pick  up  some  rascal  whose — er — irregularities  didn't 
quite  fill  the  bill,  and  could  say — Ged  ! — that  he  was  reform 
ing.  Reforming!  Ged,  Star!  That  very  defect  would 
show  the  hereditary  taint,  demn  me  !  I  must  think  of  this 
seriously.  Ged,  Star,  the  idea  is — an  inspiration  of  huma 
nity  and  virtue.  Who  knows  ?  it  might  be  the  saving  of  the 
vagabond, — a  crown  of  glory  to  the  old  man's  age.  Inspira 
tion,  did  I  say  ?  Ged,  Star,  it's  a  duty, — a  sacred,  solemn 
duty,  for  which  you  are  responsible, — personally  responsible. 
[Lights  down  half.  Enter  from  corridor  L.,  MORTON, 
DON  JOSE,  the  DONA  JOVITA,  and  MANUELA. 

Dona  Jovita  [stepping  forward  with  exaggerated  Spanish 
courtesy].  A  thousand  graces  await  your  Excellency,  Com 
mander  Don — Don — 

Starbottle  [bowing  to  the  ground  with  equal  delight  and  exag 
gerated  courtesy].  Er — Coolpepero  ! 

Dona  Jovita.  Don  Culpepero !  If  we  throw  ourselves 
unasked  at  your  Excellency's  feet  [courtesy],  if  we  appear 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  331 

unsought  before  the  light  of  your  Excellency's  eyes 
\conrtesy\  if  we  err  in  maidenly  decorum  in  thus  seeking 
unbidden  your  Excellency's  presence  \courtesy\  believe  us, 
it  is  the  fear  of  some  greater,  some  graver  indecorum  in  our 
conduct  that  has  withdrawn  your  Excellency's  person  from 
us  since  you  have  graced  our  roof  with  your  company.  We 
know,  Senor  Commander,  how  superior  are  the  charms  of 
the  American  ladies.  It  is  in  no  spirit  of  rivalry  with  them, 
but  to  show — Mother  of  God  ! — that  we  are  not  absolutely 
ugly,  that  we  intrude  upon  your  Excellency's  solitude. 
[Aside J\  I  shall  need  the  old  fool,  and  shall  use  him. 

CoL  Star  bottle  {who  has  been  bowing  and  saluting  with 
equal  extravagance  during  this  speech — aside].  Ged  !  she  is 
beautiful!  [Aloud.']  Permit  me — er — er — Dona  Jovita,  to 
correct — Ged,  I  must  say  it,  correct  erroneous  statements. 
The  man  who  should — er — utter  in  my  presence  remarks 
disparaging  those — er — charms  it  is  my  privilege  to  behold, 
I  should  hold  responsible, — Ged !  personally  responsible. 
You — er — remind  me  of — er — incident,  trifling  perhaps,  but 
pleasing — Charleston  in  '52 — a  reception  at  John  C. 
Calhoun's.  A  lady,  one  of  the  demnedest  beautiful  women 
you  ever  saw,  said  to  me,  "Star!" — she  always  called  me 
Star, — "  you've  avoided  me,  you  have,  Star  !  I  fear  you  are 
no  longer  my  friend." — "Your  friend,  madam,"  I  said. 
"No,  I've  avoided  you  because  I  am  your  lover."  Ged, 
Miss  Jovita,  a  fact  —  demn  me.  Sensation.  Husband 
heard  garbled  report.  He  was  old  friend,  but  jealous,  rash, 
indiscreet.  Fell  at  first  fire — umph — January  5th.  Lady 
— beautiful  woman — never  forgave — went  into  convent 
Sad  affair.  And  all  a  mistake — demn  me, — all  a  mistake, 
through  perhaps  extravagant  gallantry  and  compliment.  I 
lingered  here,  oblivious  perhaps  of — er — beauty,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  Nature. 

Dona  fovita.     Is  there  enough  for  your  Excellency  to 


33  2  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

share  with  me,  since  it  must  be  my  rival  ?  See,  the  fog  is 
clearing  away :  we  shall  have  moonlight.  [DON  JOSE  and 
MORTON  seat  themselves  at  table, ,]  Shall  we  not  let  these 
venerable  caballcros  enjoy  their  confidences  and  experiences 
together?  \_Aside]  Don  Jose  watches  me  like  a  fox,  does 
not  intend  to  lose  sight  of  me.  How  shall  I  show  the  light 
three  times  from  the  courtyard  roof?  I  have  it !  \Takes 
STARBOTTLE'S  arm.]  It  is  too  pleasant  to  withdraw.  There 
is  a  view  from  the  courtyard  wall  your  Excellency  should 
see.  Will  you  accompany  me  ?  The  ascent  is  easy. 

Starbottle  \bowing\.  I  will  ascend,  although,  permit  me 
to  say,  Dona  Jovita,  it  would  be — er — impossible  for  me  to 
be  nearer — er — heaven,  than — er — at  present.  - 

Dona  Jovita.  Flatterer !  Come,  you  shall  tell  me  about 
this  sad  lady  who  died.  Ah  !  Don  Culpepero,  let  me  hope 
all  your  experiences  will  not  be  so  fatal  to  us !  \_Exeunt 
DONA  JOVITA  and  STARBOTTLE.] 

Morton  [aside]  A  froward  daughter  of  Baal,  and,  if  I 
mistake  not,  even  now  concocting  mischief  for  this  foolish, 
indulgent,  stiff-necked  father.  [Aloud]  Your  only  daughter, 
I  presume. 

Don  Jose.  My  darling,  Don  Alexandro.  Motherless 
from  her  infancy.  A  little  wild,  and  inclined  to  gaiety,  but 
I  hope  not  seeking  for  more  than  these  walls  afford.  I 
have  checked  her  but  seldom,  Don  Alexandro,  and  then  I 
did  not  let  her  see  my  hand  on  the  rein  that  held  her  back. 
I  do  not  ask  her  confidence  always  :  I  only  want  her  to 
know  that  when  the  time  comes  it  can  be  given  to  me  with 
out  fear. 

Morton.     Umph ! 

Don  Jose  [leaning  forward  confidentially].  To  show  that 
you  have  not  intrusted  your  confidence  regarding  your 
wayward  son — whom  may  the  saints  return  to  you  ! — to 
unsympathetic  or  inexperienced  ears,  I  will  impart  a  secret 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  333 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  detected  an  innocent  intimacy  between 
this  foolish  girl  and  a  vagabond  vaquero  in  my  employ. 
You  understand,  it  was  on  her  part  romantic,  visionary  :  on 
his,  calculating,  shrewd,  self-interested,  for  he  expected  to 
become  my  heir.  I  did  not  lock  her  up.  I  did  not  tax  her 
with  it.  I  humoured  it.  To-day  I  satisfied  the  lover  that 
his  investment  was  not  profitable,  that  a  marriage  without 
my  consent  entailed  the  loss  of  the  property,  and  then  left 
them  together.  They  parted  in  tears,  think  you,  Don 
Alexandro?  No,  but  mutually  hating  each  other.  The 
romance  was  over.  An  American  would  have  opposed  the 
girl,  have  driven  her  to  secrecy,  to  an  elopement  perhaps. 
Eh? 

Morton  [scornfully].  And  you  believe  that  they  have 
abandoned  their  plans  ? 

Don  Jose.     I  am  sure — hush  !  she  is  here  ! 

Enter  on  roof  of  corridor  STARBOTTLE  and  JOVITA. 

Col.  Starbottle.  Really  a  superb  landscape  !  An  admir 
able  view  of  the — er — fog — rolling  over  the  Mission  Hills, 
the  plains  below,  and  the — er — er — single  figure  of — er — 
motionless  horseman — 

Dona  fovita  [quickly].     Some  belated  vaquero.     Do  you 
smoke,  Sefior  Commander? 
Starbottle.     At  times. 

Donajovita.  With  me.  I  will  light  a  cigarette  for  you  : 
it  is  the  custom. 

[CoL.  STARBOTTLE  draws  match  from  his  pocket  and 
is  about  to  light,  but  is  stopped  by  DONA  JOVITA. 
Dona  Jovita.     Pardon,  your  Excellency,  but  we  cannot 
endure  your  American  matches.     There  is  a  taper  in  the 
passage. 

[CoL.  STARBOTTLE  brings  taper.    DONA  JOVITA  turns 
to  light  cigarette,  but  manages  to  blow  out  candle. 


334  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Dona  Jovita.  I  must  try  your  gallantry  again.  That  is 
once  I  have  failed.  \Significantly  I\ 

[CoL»  STARBOTTLE  relights  candle,  business,  same  results. 

Dona  Jovita.  I  am  stupid  and  nervous  to-night.  •  I  have 
failed  twice.  [  With  emphasis^ 

[CoL.  STARBOTTLE  repeats  business  with  candle.    DONA 
JOVITA  lights  cigarette,  hands  it  to  the  Colonel. 

Dona  Jovita.  Thrice,  and  I  have  succeeded.  {Blows 
out  candle '.] 

Col.  Starbottle.  A  thousand  thanks  !  There  is  a — er — 
er — light  on  the  plain. 

Dona  Jovita  [hastily].  It  is  the  vaqueros  returning.  My 
father  gives  a  festa  to  peons  in  honour  of  your  arrival. 
There  will  be  a  dance.  You  have  been  patient,  Senor 
Commander ;  you  shall  have  my  hand  for  a  waltz. 


Enter  vaqueros,  their  wives  and  daughters.  A  dance,  during 
which  the  "  sembicanca  "  is  danced  by  COL.  STARBOTTLE  and 
DONA  JOVITA.  Business,  during  which  the  bell  of  Mission 
Church,  faintly  illuminated  beyond  the  wall,  strikes  twelve. 
Dancers  withdraw  hurriedly,  leaving  alone  MANUELA, 
DONA  JOVITA,  COL.  STARBOTTLE,  DON  JOSE  ^^^CONCHO. 
CQTXCKO  formally  hands  keys  to  DON  JOSE. 

Don  Jose  [delivering  keys  to  MORTON  with  stately  impres- 
siveness\.  Take  them,  Don  Alexandro  Morton,  and  with 
them  all  that  they  unlock  for  bliss  or  bale.  Take  them, 
noble  guest,  and  with  them  the  homage  of  this  family, — 
to-night,  Don  Alexandro,  your  humble  servants.  Good 
night,  gentlemen.  May  a  thousand  angels  attend  you,  O 
Pon  Alexandro  and  Don  Culpepero  ! 

Dona  Jovita.  Good-night,  Don  Alexandro.  May  you! 
dreams  to-night  see  all  your  wishes  fulfilled  !  Good-night, 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  335 

O  Senor  Commander.     May  she  you  dream  of  be  as  happy 
as  you ! 

Manuela  and  Concha  [together].  Good-night,  O  senores 
and  illustrious  gentlemen  !  May  the  Blessed  Fisherman 
watch  over  you  !  \Both  parties  retreat  into  opposite  corridors, 
bowingJ\ 

•  MANUELA.  CONCHO.  MORTON. 

DON  Jos£.  JOVITA.  STARBOTTLE. 

X 

SCENE  3. — The  same.  Stage  darkened.  Fog  passing  beyond 
wall  outside,  and  occasionally  obscuring  moonlit  landscape 
beyond.  Enter  JOVITA  softly  from  corridor  L.  Her  face 
is  partly  hidden  by  Spanish  mantilla. 

fovita.  All  quiet  at  last  j  and,  thanks  to  much  aguardiente, 
my  warlike  admirer  snores  peacefully  above.  Yet  I  could 
swear  I  heard  the  old  Puritan's  door  creak  as  I  descended ! 
Pshaw!  What  matters?  [Goes  to  gateway  and  tries  gateJ] 
Locked  !  Carramba  !  I  see  it  now.  Under  the  pretext 
of  reviving  the  old  ceremony,  Don  Josd  has  locked  the  gates 
and  placed  me  in  the  custody  of  his  guests.  Stay  !  There 
is  a  door  leading  to  the  corral  from  the  passage  by  Concho's 
room.  Bueno  /  Don  Jose  shall  see  !  \_Exit  R.] 

Enter  cautiously  R.  OLD  MORTON. 

Old  Morton.  I  was  not  mistaken  !  It  was  the  skirt  of 
that  Jezebel  daughter  that  whisked  past  my  door  a  moment 
ago,  and  her  figure  that  flitted  down  that  corridor.  So  ! 
The  lover  driven  out  of  the  house  at  four  P.M.,  and  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night  the  young  lady  trying  the  gate  secretly. 
This  may  be  Spanish  resignation  and  filial  submission,  but 
it  looks  very  like  Yankee  disobedience  and  forwardness. 
Perhaps  it's  well  that  the  keys  are  in  my  pocket.  This  fond 


336  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

confiding  Papist  may  find  the  heretic  American  father  of 
some  service.     [Conceals  himself  behind  pillar  of  corridor^ 

[After  a  pause  the  head  of  JOHN  OAKHURST  appears 
over  the  wall  of  corridor :  he  climbs  up  to  roof  oj 
corridor,  and  descends  very  quietly  and  deliber 
ately  to  stage. 

Oakhurst  [dusting  his  clothing  with  his  handkerchief].  I 
never  knew  before  why  these  Spaniards  covered  their  adobe 
walls  with  whitewash.  [Leans  against  pillar  in  shadow.~\ 

Re-enter  JOVITA  hastily. 

fcnnta.  All  is  lost  !  The  corral  door  is  locked,  the  key  is 
outside,  and  Concho  is  gone, — gone  where  ?  Madre  di 
JJios  !  to  discover,  perhaps  to  kill  him. 

Oakhurst  [approaching  her].     No  ! 

Jovita.  Juan  !  [embracing  him.]  But  how  did  you  get 
here?  This  is  madness  ! 

Oakhurst.  As  you  did  not  come  to  the  Mission,  I  came 
to  the  rancho.  I  found  the  gate  locked — by  the  way,  is  not 
that  a  novelty  here  ? — I  climbed  the  wall.  But  you,  Miss 
Castro,  you  are  trembling  !  Your  little  hands  are  cold  ! 

Jovita  [glancing  around].  Nothing  !  nothing  !  But  you 
are  running  a  terrible  risk.  At  any  moment  we  may  be  dis 
covered. 

Oakhurst.  I  understand  you  :  it  would  be  bad  for  the 
discoverer.  Never  fear,  I  will  be  patient. 

Jovita.     But  I  feared  that  you  might  meet  Concho. 

Oakhurst.      Concho — Concho    [meditatively].       Let   me 
see, — tall,  dark,  long  in  the  arm,  weighs  about  one  hundred 
and  eighty,  and  active. 
Jovita.     Yes,  tell  me  !     You  have  met  him  ? 

Oakhurst.    Possibly,  possibly  !    Was  he  a  friend  of  yours? 
Jovita.     No ! 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  337 

Oakhurst.     That's  better.     Are  his  pursuits  here  seden 
tary  or  active  ? 
Jovita.     He  is  my  father's  major-domo. 

Oakhurst.     I  see  :  a  sinecure.     [Aside.]     Well,  if  he  has 
to  lay  up  for  a  week  or  two,  the  rancho  won't  suffer. 
Jovita.     Well  ? 
;  Oakhurst.     Well ! 

Jovita  [passionately].  There !  having  scaled  the  wall,  at 
the  risk  of  being  discovered — this  is  all  you  have  to  say ! 
[  Turning  away.  ] 

Oakhurst  [quietly]  Perhaps,  Jovita  [taking  her  hand 
with  grave  earnestness],  to  a  clandestine  intimacy  like  ours 
there  is  but  one  end.  It  is  not  merely  elopement,  not 
merely  marriage,  it  is  exposure  !  Sooner  or  later  you  and  I 
must  face  the  eyes  we  now  shun.  What  matters  if  to-night 
or  later  ? 
Jovita  [quickly].  I  am  ready.  It  was  you  who — 

Oakhurst.  It  was  I  who  first  demanded  secrecy ;  but  it 
was  I  who  told  you  when  we  last  met  that  I  would  tell  you 
why  to-night. 

Jovita.  I  am  ready ;  but  hear  me,  Juan.  Nothing  can 
change  my  faith  in  you. 

Oakhurst  [sadly].  You  know  not  what  you  say.  Listen, 
my  child.  I  am  a  gambler.  Not  the  man  who  lavishes 
his  fortune  at  the  gaming-table  for  excitement's  sake ;  not 
the  fanatic  who  stakes  his  own  earnings — perhaps  the  con 
fided  earnings  of  others — on  a  single  coup.  No,  he  is  the 
man  who  loses, — whom  the  world  deplores,  pities,  and 
forgives.  I  am  the  man  who  wins — whom  the  world  hates 
and  despises; 

Jovita.     I  do  not  understand  you,  Juan. 

Oakhurst.  So  much  the  better,  perhaps.  But  you  must 
hear  me.  I  make  a  profession — an  occupation  more  ex 
acting,  more  wearying,  more  laborious,  than  that  of  your 

VOL.  I.  Y 


33 8  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

meanest  herdsman — of  that  which  others  make  a  dissipation 
of  the  senses.  And  yet,  Jovita,  there  is  not  the  meanest 
vaquero  in  this  ranch,  who,  playing  against  me,  winning  or 
losing,  is  not  held  to  be  my  superior.  I  have  no  friends — 
only  confederates.  Even  the  woman  who  dares  to  pity  me 
must  do  it  in  secret. 

Jovita.  But  you  will  abandon  this  dreadful  trade.  As 
the  son  of  the  rich  Don  Jose',  no  one  dare  scorn  you.  My 
father  will  relent.  I  am  his  heiress. 

Oakhurst.  No  more,  Jovita,  no  more.  If  I  were  the  man 
who  could  purchase  the  world's  respect  through  a  woman's 
weakness  for  him,  I  should  not  be  here  to-night.  I  am  not 
here  to  sue  your  father's  daughter  with  hopes  of  forgiveness, 
promises  of  reformation.  Reformation,  in  a  man  like  me, 
means  cowardice  or  self-interest.  [OLD  MORTON,  becoming 
excited,  leans  slowly  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  pillar p,  listen 
ing  intently. ~\  I  am  here  to  take,  by  force  if  necessary,  a 
gambler's  wife, — the  woman  who  will  share  my  fortunes, 
my  disgrace,  my  losses ;  who  is  willing  to  leave  her  old  life 
of  indulgence,  of  luxury,  of  respectability,  for  mine.  You 
are  frightened,  little  dove :  compose  yourself  [soothing  her 
tenderly  and  sadly] ;  you  are  frightened  at  the  cruel  hawk 
who  has  chosen  you  for  a  mate. 

Old  Morton  [aside].  God  in  heaven  !  This  is  like  HIM  ! 
like  me  ! — like  me  before  the  blessed  Lord  lifted  me  into 
regeneration.  If  it  should  be  !  [Leans  forward  anxiously 
from  pillar]. 

Oakhurst  \aside\.  Still  silent  ?  Poor  dove  !  I  can  hear 
her  foolish  heart  flutter  against  mine.  Another  moment 
decides  our  fate.  Another  moment :  John  Oakhurst  and 
freedom,  or  Red  Gulch  and — she  is  moving.  [To  JOVITA.] 
I  am  harsh,  little  one,  and  cold.  Perhaps  I  have  had  much 
to  make  me  so.  But  when  [with  feeling]  I  first  met  you ;  when, 
lifting  my  eyes  to  the  church-porch,  I  saw  your  beautiful 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  339 

face  ;  when,  in  sheer  recklessness  and  bravado,  I  raised  my 
hat  to  you  ;  when  you— you,  Jo  vita — lifted  your  brave  eyes 
to  mine,  and  there,  there  in  the  sanctuary,  returned  my 
salute, — the  salutation  of  the  gambler,  the  outcast,  the 
reprobate, — then,  then  I  swore  that  you  should  be  mine, 
if  I  tore  you  from  the  sanctuary.  Speak  now,  Jovita : 
if  it  was  coquetry,  speak  now ;  I  forgive  you :  if  it 
was  sheer  wantonness,  speak  now ;  I  shall  spare  you  :  but 
if— 

Jovita  [throwing  herself  in  his  arms].  Love,  Juan  !  I  am 
yours,  now  and  for  ever.  [Pause.]  But  you  have  not  told 
me  all.  I  will  go  with  you  to-night — now.  I  leave  behind 
me  all, — my  home,  my  father,  my — [pause] — my  name.  You 
have  forgotten,  Juan,  you  have  not  told  me  what  I  change 
that  for  :  you  have  not  told  me  yours. 

[OLD    MORTON,   in   eager  excitement,   leans   beyond 

shadow  of  pillar. 

Oakhurst  [embracing  her  tenderly,  with  a  smile'].  If  I 
have  not  told  you  who  I  am,  it  was  because,  darling,  it  was 
more  important  that  you  should  know  what  I  am.  Now 
that  you  know  that — why — [embarrassedly] — I  have  nothing 
more  to  tell.  I  did  not  wish  you  to  repeat  the  name  of 
Oakhurst,  because — [aside] — how  the  devil  shall  I  tell  her 
that  Oakhurst  was  my  real  name  after  all,  and  that  I  only 
feared  she  might  divulge  it? — [aloud] — because — because — 
[determinedly] — I  doubted  your  ability  to  keep  a  secret.  My 
real  name  is — [looks  up,  and  sees  MORTON  leaning  beyond 
pillar] — is  a  secret.  [Pause,  in  which  OAKHURST  slowly  re 
covers  his  coolness^]  It  will  be  given  to  the  good  priest  who 
to-night  joins  our  fate  forever,  Jovita, — forever,  in  spite  of 
calumny,  opposition,  or  spies! — the  padre  whom  we  shall 
reach,  if  enough  life  remains  in  your  pulse  and  mine  to 
clasp  these  hands  together.  [After  a  pause.']  Are  you 
content  ? 


34-O  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Jovita.     I  am. 

Oakhurst.    Then  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.     Retire 
and  prepare  yourself  for  a  journey.     I  will  wait  here. 
Jovita.     I  am  ready  now. 

Oakhurst  [looking  toward  pillar].  Pardon,  my  darling : 
there  was  a  bracelet — a  mere  trifle — I  once  gave  you. 
It  is  not  on  your  wrist.  I  am  a  trifle  superstitious,  per 
haps  :  it  was  my  first  gift.  Bring  it  with  you.  I  will  wait. 
Go !  [Exit  JOVITA.] 

[OAKHURST  watches  her  exit,  lounges  indifferently 
toward  gate  ;  when  opposite  pillar,  suddenly  seizes 
MORTON  by  the  throat  and  drags  him  noiselessly 
to  centre. 

Oakhurst  [hurriedly].  One  outcry, — a  single  word, — 
and  it  is  your  last.  I  care  not  who  you  may  be  ! — who  I 
am, — you  have  heard  enough  to  know,  at  least,  that  you 
are  in  the  grip  of  a  desperate  man.  [Keys  fall  from 
MORTON'S  hand.  OAKHURST  seizes  them.]  Silence !  on 
your  life. 

Morton  [struggling'].  You  would  not  dare  !  I  command 
you — 

Oakhurst  [dragging  him  to  gateway].     Out  you  must  go. 

Morton.  Stop,  I  command  you.  /  never  turned  my 
father  out  of  doors  ! 

Oakhurst  \gazing  at  MORTON].  It  is  an  old  man  !  I 
release  you.  Do  as  you  will,  only  remember  that  that 
girl  is  mine  forever,  that  there  is  no  power  on  earth  will 
keep  me  from  her. 

Morton.     On  conditions. 

Oakhurst.  Who  are  you  that  make  conditions  ?  You  are 
not — her  father  ? 

Morton.  No,  but  I  am  yours  I  Alexander  Morton,  1 
charge  you  to  hear  me. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  341 

Oakhurst  [starting  in  astonishment !,  aside].  Sandy  Morton, 
my  lost  partner's  father  !  This  is  fate. 

Morton.  You  are  astonished  ;  but  I  thought  so.  Ay, 
you  will  hear  me  now  !  I  am  your  father,  Alexander  Morton, 
who  drove  you,  a  helpless  boy,  into  disgrace  and  misery. 
I  know  your  shameless  life  :  for  twenty  years  it  was  mine, 
and  worse,  until,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  reformed,  as  you 
shall.  I  have  stopped  you  in  a  disgraceful  act.  Your 
mother — God  forgive  me  ! — left  her  house,  for  my  arms,  as 
wickedly,  as  wantonly,  as  shamelessly — 

Oakhurst.  Stop,  old  man,  stop  !  Another  word  [seizing 
him~\,  and  I  may  forget  your  years. 

Morton.  But  not  your  blood.  No,  Alexander  Morton, 
I  have  come  thousands  of  miles  for  one  sacred  purpose, — 
to  save  you ;  and  I  shall,  with  God's  will,  do  it  now.  Be  it 
so,  on  one  condition.  You  shall  have  this  girl ;  but  lawfully, 
openly,  with  the  sanction  of  Heaven  and  your  parents. 

Oakhurst  [aside].  I  see  a  ray  of  hope.  This  is  Sandy's 
father :  the  cold,  insensate  brute  who  drove  him  into  exile, 
the  one  bitter-  memory  of  his  life.  Sandy  disappeared 
irreclaimable,  or  living  alone,  hating  irrevocably  the  author 
of  his  misery  ;  why  should  not  I — 

Morton  [continuing.  On  one  condition.  Hear  me, 
Alexander  Morton.  If  within  a  year,  you,  abandoning  your 
evil  practices,  your  wayward  life,  seek  to  reform  beneath 
my  roof,  I  will  make  this  proud  Spanish  Don  glad  to 
accept  you  as  the  more  than  equal  of  his  daughter. 

Oakhurst  [aside].  It  would  be  an  easy  deception.  Sandy 
has  given  me  the  details  of  his  early  life.  At  least,  before 
the  imposition  was  discovered  I  shall  be — [Aloud]  I — 1 
[Aside.]  Perdition  !  she  is  coming  !  There  is  a  light  mov 
ing  in  the  upper  chamber.  Don  Jose  is  awakened.  [Aloud.] 
I — I — accept 


34 2  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Morton.  It  is  well.  Take  these  keys,  open  yonder  gate 
and  fly !  [As  OAKHURST  hesitates. "]  Obey  me.  I  will 
meet  your  sweetheart  and  explain  all.  You  will  come 
here  at  daylight  in  the  morning  and  claim  admittance,  not 
as  a  vagabond,  a  housebreaker,  but  as  my  son.  You  hesitate. 
Alexander  Morton,  I,  your  father,  command  you.  Go  ! 

[OAKHURST  goes  to  the  gate,  opens  it,  as  the  sound  of 
DIEGO'S  voice,  singing  in  the  fog,  comes  faintly  in. 

O  yer's  your  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 
O  yer's  your  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 
O  yer's  your  Sandy  Morton, 
For  he's  drunk  and  goin'  a-courtin.' 
O  yer's  your  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 

[OAKHURST  recoils  against  gate;  MORTON  hesitates,  as 
window  in  corridor  opens  and  DON  Jos£  calls 
from  upper  corridor. 

Don  Jose.  Concho  !  {Pause.'}  Tis  that  vagabond  Diego, 
lost  his  way  in  the  fog.  Strange  that  Concho  should  have 
overlooked  him.  I  will  descend. 

Morton  [to  OAKHURST].     Do  you  hear  ? 

[Exit  OAKHURST  through  gateway.  MORTON  closes 
gate  and  returns  to  .centre.  Enter  JOVITA 
hurriedly. 

Jovita.  I  have  it  here.  Quick  !  there  is  a  light  in  Don 
Josefs  chamber ;  my  father  is  coming  down.  [Sees  MORTON 
and  screams.} 

Morton  [seizing  her\.  Hush,  for  your  own  sake,  for  his, 
control  yourself.  He  is  gone,  but  he  will  return.  [To 
JOVITA,  still  struggling}  Hush,  I  beg,  Miss  Jovita.  I  beg, 
I  command  you,  my  daughter,  hush  1 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  343 

Jovita  \whisfering\.  His  voice  has  changed.  What 
does  this  mean  ?  \Aloud.~\  Where  has  he  gone  ?  and  why 
are  you  here  ? 

Morton  [slowly  and  seriously].  He  has  left  me  here  to 
answer  the  unanswered  question  you  asked  him.  \Enter 
DON  Jos£  and  COL.  STARBOTTLE  R.  and  L.]  I  am  here  to 
tell  you  that  I  am  his  father,  and  that  he  is  Alexander 
Morton. 

TABLEAU. 

Curtain. 

3CND  OF  ACT  I. 


344  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  i. — Red  Gulch.  Canon  of  river,  and  distant  view  of 
Sierras,  snow-ravined.  Schoolhouse  of  logs  in  right  middle 
distance.  Ledge  of  rocks  in  centre.  On  steps  of  schoolhouse 
two  large  bunches  of  flowers.  Enter  STARBOTTLE,  slowly 
climbing  rocks  1*^  panting  and  exhausted.  Seats  himself  on 
rock,  foreground,  and  wipes  his  face  with  his  pockethandker- 
chief. 

Starbottle.  This  is  evidently  the — er — locality.  Here 
are  the — er — groves  of  Academus — the  heights  of — er — Ida  ! 
I  should  say  that  the  unwillingness  which  the — er — divine 
Shakespeare  points  out  in  the — er — "  whining  schoolboy  "  is 
intensified  in — er — climbing  this  height,  and  the — er — 
alacrity  of  his  departure  must  be  in  exact  ratio  to  his  gravi 
tation.  Good  idea.  Ged  !  say  it  to  schoolma'am.  Wonder 
what  she's  like  ?  Humph  !  the  usual  thin,  weazened,  hatchet- 
faced  Yankee  spinster,  with  an  indecent  familiarity  with 
Webster's  Dictionary  !  And  this  is  the  woman,  Star,  you're 
expected  to  discover,  and  bring  back  to  affluence  and  plenty. 
This  is  the  new  fanaticism  of  Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  sen. 
Ged  !  not  satisfied  with  dragging  his  prodigal  son  out  of 
merited  obscurity,  this  miserable  old  lunatic  commissions 
me  to  hunt  up  another  of  his  abused  relatives ;  some  forty- 
fifth  cousin,  whose  mother  he  had  frozen,  beaten,  or  starved 
to  death.  And  all  this  to  please  his  prodigal !  Ged  !  if  that 
prodigal  hadn't  presented  himself  that  morning,  I'd  have 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  345 

picked  up — er — some — er — reduced  gentleman — Ged  !  that 
knew  how  to  spend  the  old  man's  money  to  better  advan 
tage.  [Musing.]  If  this  schoolmistress  were  barely  good- 
looking,  Star, — and  she's  sure  to  have  fifty  thousand  from 
the  old  man — Ged!  you  might  get  even  with  Alexander,  sen. 
for  betrothing  his  prodigal  to  Dona  Jovita,  in  spite  of  the 
— er — evident  preference  that  the  girl  showed  for  you. 
Capital  idea !  If  she's  not  positively  hideous  I'll  do  it !  Ged! 
I'll  reconnoitre  first  !  [Musing.]  I  could  stand  one  eye ; 
yes — er — single  eye  would  not  be  positively  objectionable  in 
the — er — present  experiments  of  science  toward  the — er — 
the  substitution  of  glass.  Red  hair,  Star,  is — er — Venetian 
— the  beauty  of  Giorgione.  [Goes  up  to  schoolhouse  window, 
and  looks  in.]  Too  early !  Seven  empty  benches ;  seven 
desks  splashed  with  ink.  The — er — rostrum  of  the  awful 
Minerva  empty,  but — er — adorned  with  flowers,  nosegays — 
demn  me !  And  here,  here  on  the — er — very  threshold 
[looking  down\  floral  tributes.  The — er — conceit  of  these 
New  England  schoolma'ams,  and  their — er — evident  Jesuiti 
cal  influence  over  the  young,  is  fraught,  sir,  fraught  with — 
er — darkly  political  significance.  Eh,  Ged  !  there's  a  carica 
ture  on  the  blackboard.  [Laughing.]  Ha,  ha !  Absurd 
chalk  outline  of  ridiculous  fat  person.  Evidently  the  school- 
ma'am's  admirer.  Ged  !  immensely  funny  !  Ah  !  boys  will 
be  boys.  Like  you,  Star,  just  like  you, — always  up  to  tricks 
like  that.  A  sentence  scrawled  below  the  figure  seems  to  be 
— er — explanation.  Hem  !  [Takes  out  eyeglass.]  Let's  see 
[reading.]  "  This  is  old  " — old — er — old — demme,  sir  ! 
— "  Starbottle  !  "  This  is  infamous.  I  haven't  been  forty- 
eight  hours  in  the  place,  and  to  my  certain  knowledge 
haven't  spoken  to  a  child.  Ged  !  sir,  it's  the — er — posting 
of  a  libel !  The  woman,  the— er — female,  who  permits  this 
kind  of  thing  should  be  made  responsible — er — personally 


346  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

responsible.     Eh,  hush  !     What  have  we  here  ?     [Retires  to 
ledge  of  rock. 1 

Enter  Miss  MARY,  L.,  reading  letter. 

Miss  Mary.  Strange  !  Is  it  all  a  dream  ?  No  !  here 
are  the  familiar  rocks,  the  distant  snow-peaks,  the  school- 
house,  the  spring  below.  An  hour  ago  I  was  the  poor 
schoolmistress  of  Red  Gulch,  with  no  ambition  nor  hope 
beyond  this  mountain  wall ;  and  now — oh,  it  must  be  a 
dream  !  But  here  is  the  letter.  Certainly  this  is  no  delu 
sion  :  it  is  too  plain,  formal,  business-like.  [ReadsJ] 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, — I  address  the  only  surviving  child 
of  my  cousin  Mary  and  her  husband  John  Morris,  both 
deceased.  It  is  my  duty  as  a  Christian  relative  to  provide 
you  with  a  home, — to  share  with  you  that  wealth  and  those 
blessings  that  a  kind  Providence  has  vouchsafed  me.  I  am 
aware  that  my  conduct  to  your  father  and  mother,  while  in 
my  sinful  and  unregenerate  state,  is  no  warrant  for  my 
present  promise ;  but  my  legal  adviser,  Col.  Starbottle,  who 
is  empowered  to  treat  with  you,  will  assure  you  of  the 
sincerity  of  my  intention,  and  my  legal  ability  to  perform  it. 
He  will  conduct  you  to  my  house ;  you  will  share  its  roof 
with  me  and  my  prodigal  son  Alexander,  now  by  the  grace 
of  God  restored,  and  mindful  of  the  error  of  his  ways.  I 
enclose  a  draft  for  one  thousand  dollars :  if  you  require 
more,  draw  upon  me  for  the  same. 
Your  cousin, 

ALEXANDER  MORTON,  SEN. 

My  mother's  cousin — so  !  Cousin  Alexander  !  a  rich  man, 
and  reunited  to  the  son  he  drove  into  shameful  exile.  Well, 
we  will  see  this  confidential  lawyer ;  and  until  then — until 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  347 

then — why,  we  are  the  schoolmistress  of  Red  Gulch,  and 
responsible  for  its  youthful  prodigals.  [Going  to  schoolhouse 
doorl\ 

Miss  Mary  [stopping  to  examine  flowers~\.  Poor,  poor 
Sandy  !  Another  offering,  and,  as  he  fondly  believes,  un 
known  and  anonymous  !  As  if  he  were  not  visible  in  every 
petal  and  leaf !  The  mariposa  blossom  of  the  plain.  The 
snow  flower  I  longed  for,  from  those  cool  snow-drifts  beyond 
the  ridge.  And  I  really  believe  he  was  sober  when  he 
arranged  them.  Poor  fellow  !  I  begin  to  think  that  the  dis 
sipated  portion  of  this  community  are  the  most  interesting. 
Ah  !  some  one  behind  the  rock, — Sandy,  I'll  wager.  No  ! 
a  stranger ! 

Col.  Starbottle  [aside,  and  advancing^,  If  I  could  make 
her  think  I  left  those  flowers  !  [Aloud.~\  When  I  £tate  that 
• — er — I  am  perhaps — er — stranger — 

Miss  Mary  \interrupting  him  coldly].  You  explain,  sir, 
your  appearance  on  a  spot  which  the  rude  courtesy  of  even 
this  rude  miners'  camp  has  preserved  from  intrusion. 

Starbottle  [slightly  abashed,  but  recovering  himself].  Yes 
— Ged  ! — that  is,  I — er — saw  you  admiring — er — tribute 
— er — humble  tribute  of  flowers.  I  am  myself  passionately 
devoted  to  flowers.  Ged  !  I've  spent  hours — in — er — bend 
ing  over  the — er — graceful  sunflower,  in — er — plucking  the 
timid  violet  from  the  overhanging  but  reluctant  bough,  in 
collecting  the — er — er— -fauna — I  mean  the — er— -flora — of 
this — er — district. 

Miss  Mary  [who  has  been  regarding  him  intently].  Permit 
me  to  leave  you  uninterrupted  admiration  of  them.  ^Hand 
ing  himfloivers^\  You  will  have  ample  time  in  your  journey 
down  the  gulch  to  indulge  your  curiosity  ! 

[Hands  STARBOTTLE  flowers,  enters  schoolhouse,  and 
quietly  closes  door  on  STARBOTTLE  as  SANDY 
MORTON  enters  cautiously  and  sheepishly  from 


348  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

left.     SANDY  stops  in  astonishment  on  observing 
STARBOTTLE,    and  remains  by  wing  left. 

Starbottle  [smelling  flowers,  and  not  noticing  Miss  MARY'S 
absence].  Beautiful — er — exquisite.  [Looking  up  at  closed 
door]  Ged !  most  extraordinary  disappearance !  \_Looks 
around,  and  discovers  SANDY  ;  examines  him  for  a  moment 
through  his  eyeglass,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  inflates  his  chest, 
turns  his  back  on  SANDY,  and  advances  to  schoolhouse  door. 
SANDY  comes  quickly,  and,  as  STARBOTTLE  raises  his  cane 
to  rap  on  door,  seizes  his  arm.  Both  men,  regarding 
each  other  fixedly,  holding  each  other,  retreat  slowly  and 
cautiously  to  centre.  Then  STARBOTTLE  disengages  his 
arm] 

Sandy  \embarrassedly  but  determinedly].  Look  ?yer, 
stranger.  By  the  rules  of  this  camp,  this  place  is  sacred  to 
the  school-ma'am  and  her  children. 

Starbottle  [with  lofty  severity].  It  is  !  Then — er — permit 
me  to  ask,  sir,  what  you  are  doing  here. 

Sandy  [embarrassed,  and  dropping  his  head  in  confusioii\. 
I  was  passing.  There  is  no  school  to-day. 

Starbottle.  Then,  sir,  Ged  !  permit  me  to — er — demand 
— demand,  sir,  an  apology.  You  have  laid,  sir,  your  hand 
upon  my  person — demn  me  !  Not  the  first  time,  sir,-  either ; 
for,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  are — er — inebriated  menial, 
sir,  who  two  months  ago  jostled  me,  sir — demn  me — as  I 
entered  the  rancho  of  my  friend  Don  Josd  Castro. 

Sandy  [starting  aside\  Don  Jose !  \_Aloud.~]  Hush, 
hush  !  She  will  hear  you.  No — that  is — [stops  confused 
and  embarrassed.  Aside.~\  She  will  hear  of  my  disgrace.  He 
will  tell  her  the  whole  story. 

Starbottle.  I  shall  await  your  apology  one  hour.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  if  it  is  not  forthcoming,  I  shall — er — er — > 
waive  your  menial  antecedents,  and  expect  the — er — satis- 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  349 

faction  of  a  gentleman.  Good-morning,  sir.  [Turns  to 
schoolhouse.'] 

Sandy.     No,  no  !  you  shall  not  go  ! 

Starbottle.     Who  will  prevent  me  ? 

Sandy  \grappling  him.~\  /  will.  [AppealinglyJ]  Look 
'yer,  stranger ;  don't  provoke  me,  I,  a  desperate  man,  despe 
rate  and  crazed  with  drink, — don't  ye,  don't  ye  do  it !  For 
God's  sake,  take  your  hands  off  me  !  Ye  don't  know  what 
ye  do.  Ah  !  [  Wildly  holding  STAR  BOTTLE  j£r;/z/y,  and  forcing 
him  backward  to  precipice  beyond  ledge  of  rocks.']  Hear 
me.  Three  years  ago,  in  a  moment  like  this,  I  dragged  a 
man — my  friend — to  this  precipice.  I — I — no,  no  : — don't 
anger  me  now !  [SANDY'S  grip  on  STARBOTTLE  relaxes  slightly 
and  his  head  droops] 

Starbottle  [coolly].  Permit  me  to  remark,  sir,  that  any 
reminiscence  of  your — er — friend — or  any  other  man,  is — er 
— at  this  moment  irrelevant  and  impertinent.  Permit  me 
to  point  out  the — er — fact,  sir,  that  -your  hand  is  pressing 
heavily,  demned  heavily,  on  my  shoulder. 

Sandy  [fiercely].     You  shall  not  go  ! 

Starbottle  [fiercely].  Shall  not  ? 

[Struggle.  STARBOTTLE  draws  derringer  from  his 
breast-pocket,  and  SANDY  seizes  his  arm.  In  this 
position  both  parties  struggle  to  ledge  of  rocks,  and 
COL.  STARBOTTLE  is  forced  partly  over. 

Miss  Mary  [opening  schoolhouse-door\.  I  thought  I  heard 
voices.  [Looking  toward  ledge  of  rocks,  where  COL.  STARBOTTLE 
and  SANDY  are  partly  hidden  by  trees.  Both  men  relax  grasp 
of  each  other  at  Miss  MARY'S  voice.] 

Col.  Starbottle  [aloud,  and  with  voice  slightly  raised,  to 
SANDY].  By — er — leaning  over  this  way  a  moment,  a  single 
moment,  you  will — er — perceive  the  trail  I  speak  of.  It 


350  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

follows  the  canon  to  the  right.  It  will  bring  you  to — er — 
the  settlement  in  an  hour.  \To  Miss  MARY,  •&$  if  observing 
her  for  the  first  timeJ\  I  believe  I  am — er — right ;  but,  being 
— er — more  familiar  with  the  locality,  you  can  direct  the 
gentleman  better. 

[SANDY  slowly  sinks  on  his  knees  beside  rock,  with 
his  face  averted  from  schoolhouse,  as  COL.  STAR- 
BOTTLE  disengages  himself,  and  advances  jauntily 
and  gallantly  to  schoolhouse. 

Col.  Starbottle.  In — er — er — showing  the  stranger  the — 
er — way,  I  perhaps  interrupted  our  interview.  The — er — 
observances  of — er — civility  and  humanity  must  not  be  fore 
gone,  even  for — er — the  ladies.  I — er — believe  I  address 
Miss  Mary  Morris.  When  I — er — state  that  my  name  is 
Col.  Starbottle,  charged  on  mission  of — er — delicate  nature, 
I  believe  I — er — explain  my  intrusion. 

[Miss  MARY  bows,  and  motions  to  schoolhouse-door  ; 
COL.  STARBOTTLE,  bowing  deeply,  enters  ;  but 
Miss  MARY  remains  standing  by  door,  looking 
toward  trees  that  hide  SANDY. 

Miss  MARY  \aside\.  I  am  sure  it  was  Sandy's  voice  ! 
But  why  does  he  conceal  himself  ? 

Sandy  \aside,  rising  slowly  to  his  feet,  with  his  back  to 
schoolhouse-door\  Even  this  conceited  bully  overcomes  me, 
and  shames  me  with  his  readiness  and  tact.  He  was  quick 
to  spare  her — a  stranger — the  spectacle  of  two  angry  men. 
I — I — must  needs  wrangle  before  her  very  door !  Well, 
well !  better  out  of  her  sight  forever,  than  an  object  of  pity 
or  terror.  [.Exit  slowly,  and  with  downcast  eyes,  right. ~\ 

Miss  Mary  [watching  the  trail"].  It  was  Sandy !  and 
this  concealment  means  something  more  than  bashful* 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  351 

ness.     Perhaps  the  stranger  can  explain.     \Enters  school- 
house  and  closes  door.~\ 


SCENE  2. — The  same.    Enter  CONCHO,  lame,  cautiously,  from 
R.     Pauses  at  R.,  and  then  beckons  to  HOP  SING,  who 

follows  R. 

Concho  \inip  atiently\.     Well,  you  saw  him  ? 

Hop  Sing.     Me  see  him. 

Concho.     And  you  recognised  him? 

Hop  Sing.     No  shabe  likoquise. 

Concho  [furiously\.  You  knew  him,  eh  ?  Carramba ! 
you  knew  him  ? 

Hop  Sing  [slowly  and  sententious  ly\.  Me  shabe  man  you 
callee  Diego.  Me  shabbee  Led  Gulchee  call  Sandy.  Me 
shabbee  man  Poker  Flat  callee  Alexandlee  Molton.  Allee 
same,  John  !  Allee  same  ! 

Concho  [rubbing  his  handsJ]  Bueno  !  Good  John  !  good 
John  !  And  you  knew  he  was  called  Alexander  Morton  ? 
And  go  on — good  John — go  on  ! 

Hop  Sing.  Me  plentee  washee  shirtee — Melican  man 
Poker  Flat.  Me  plentee  washee  shirt  Alexandlee  Molton. 
Always  litee,  litee  on  shirt  allee  time.  [Pointing  to  tail  of 
his  blouse,  and  imitating  writing  with  finger ^\  Alexandlee 
Molton.  Melican  man  tellee  me — shirt  say  Alexandlee 
Molton — shabbee  ? 

Concho.  Bueno !  Excellent  John.  Good  John.  His 
linen  marked  Alexander  Morton.  The  proofs  are  gathering. 
[Crosses  to  c.]  The  letter  I  found  in  his  pack,  addressed  to 
Alexander  Morton,  Poker  Flat,  which  first  put  me  on  his 
track ;  the  story  of  his  wife's  infidelity,  and  her  flight  with 
his  partner  to  Red  Gulch,  the  quarrel  and  fight  that  sepa 
rated  them,  his  flight  to  San  Jose,  his,  wanderings  to  the 


352  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

mission  of  San  Carmel,  to  the  rancho  of  the  Holy  Fisherman. 
The  record  is  complete  ! 

Hop  Sing.     Alexandlee  Molton — 

Concha  [hurriedly  returning  to  HOP  SING].  Yes  !  good 
John;  yes,  good  John— go  on.  Alexander  Morton — 

Hop  Sing.  Alexandlee  Molton.  Me  washee  shirt, 
Alexandlee  Molton ;  he  no  pay  washee.  Me  washee  flowty 
dozen  hep — four  bittie  dozen — twenty  dollar  hep.  Alex 
andlee  Molton  no  payee.  He  say,  "  Go  to  hellee  ! "  You 
pay  me  [extending  his  hand~\. 

Concho.  Car — /  [checking  himself}  Poco  tiempo,  John  ! 
In  good  time,  John.  Forty  dollar — yes.  Fifty  dollar  !  To 
morrow,  John. 

Hop  Sing.  Me  no  likee  "to-mollow!"  Me  no  likee 
"  nex  time,  John  ! "  Allee  time  Melican  man  say,  "  Chalkee 
up,  John,"  "No  smallee  change,  John. "  Umph  !  Plenty 
foolee  me ! 

Concho.  You  shall  have  your  money,  John  ;  but  go  now 
— you  comprehend.  Carramba!  go!  [Pushes  HOP  SING  to 
wing.} 

Hop  Sing  [expostulating'].  Flowty  dozen,  hep,  John  ! 
twenty  dollar,  John.  Sabe.  Flowty — twenty — [gesticulating 
with  fingers, ,] 

[Exit  HOP  SING,  pushed  off  by  CONCHO. 

Concho.  The  pagan  dolt  !  But  he  is  important.  Ah  !  if 
he  were  wiser,  I  should  not  rid  myself  of  him  so  quickly ! 
And  now  for  the  schoolmistress, — the  sweetheart  of  Sandy. 
If  these  men  have  not  lied,  he  is  in  love  with  her ;  and  if  he 
is,  he  has  told  her  his  secret  before  now ;  and  she  will  be 
swift  to  urge  him  to  his  rights.  If  he  has  not  told  her — 
umph  !  [laughing]  it  will  not  be  a  day — an  hour — before  she 
will  find  out  if  her  lover  is  Alexander  Morton,  the  rich  man's 
son,  or  "  Sandy,"  the  unknown  vagabond.  Eh,  friend  Sandy  ! 
It  was  a  woman  that  locked  up  your  secret :  it  shall  be  a 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  353 

woman,  Madre  di  Dios  !  who  shall  unlock  it.  Ha  !  [Goes 
to  door  of  schoolhouse  as  door  open*)  and  appears  COL.  STAR- 
BOTTLE.] 

Concho  [aside'].  A  thousand  devils  !  the  lawyer  of  the 
old  man  Morton.  [AloudJ]  Pardon,  pardon !  I  am  a 
stranger.  I  have  lost  my  way  on  the  mountain.  I  am 
seeking  a  trail.  Senor,  pardon  ! 

Starbottle  [aside].  Another  man  seeking  the  road  !  Ged ! 
I  believe  he's  lying  too.  \Aloud.~\  It  is  before  you,  sir, 
down, — down  the  mountain. 

Concho.  A  thousand  thanks,  senor.  \Aside^\  Perdition 
catch  him !  \Aloud.~\  Thanks,  senor.  [Exit  R. 

Starbottle.  Ged !  I've  seen  that  face  before.  Ged  !  it's 
Castro's  major-domo.  Demn  me,  but  I  believe  all  his  do 
mestics  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  pretty  schoolma'am. 

Enter  Miss  MARY  from  school  house. 

Miss  Mary  [slowly  refolding  letter].  You  are  aware,  then, 
of  the  contents  of  this  note;  and  you  are  the  friend  of 
Alexander  Morton,  sen.? 

Col.  Starbottle.  Permit  me  a  moment,  a  single  moment, 
to — er — er — explain.  I  am  Mr.  Morton's  legal  adviser. 
There  is — er — sense  of — er — responsibility, — er — personal 
responsibility,  about  the  term  "  friend,"  that  at  the — er — er 
— present  moment  I  am  not — er — prepared  to  assume. 
The  substance  of  the  letter  is  before  you.  I  am  here  to — er — 
express  its  spirit  I  am  here  [with  great  gallantry]  to  express 
the — er — yearnings  of  cousinly  affection.  I  am  aware — er — 
that  our  conduct, — if  I  may  use  the — er — the  plural  of  advo 
cacy, — I  am  aware  that — er — our  conduct  has  not  in  the  past 
years  been  of — er — er — exemplary  character.  I  am  aware 
that  the — er — death  of  our  lamented  cousin,  your  sainted 
mother,  was — er — hastened — I  may — er — say — pre-cipi- 

VOL.  i.  z 


354  Two  Men  of  Sanely  Bar. 

tated — by  our — er — indiscretion.  But  we  are  here  to — er 
— confess  judgment — with — er — er — costs. 

Miss  Mary  \interrupting\.  In  other  words,  your  client, 
my  cousin,  having  ruined  my  father,  having  turned  his  own 
widowed  relation  out  of  doors,  and  sent  me,  her  daughter, 
among  strangers  to  earn  her  bread ;  having  seen  my  mother 
sink  and  die  in  her  struggle  to  keep  her  family  from  want, — 
this  man  now  seeks  to  condone  his  offences — pardon  me,  sir, 
if  I  use  your  own  legal  phraseology — by  offering  me  a  home  ; 
by  giving  me  part  of  his  ill-gotten  wealth,  the  association  of 
his  own  hypocritical  self,  and  the  company  of  his  shameless, 
profligate  son — 

Starbottle  \interrupting\.  A  moment,  Miss  Morris, — a 
single  moment!  The  epithets  you  have  used,  the — er — 
vigorous  characterisation  of  our — er — conduct,  is— er — 
within  the — er — strict  rules  of  legal  advocacy,  correct.  We 
are — er — rascals  !  we  are — er — scoundrels  !  we  are — er — 
well,  I  am  not — er — prepared  to  say  that  we  are  not — er — 
demn  me — hypocrites  !  But  the  young  man  you  speak  of 
— our  son,  whose  past  life  (speaking  as  Col.  Starbottle)  no 
one  more  sincerely  deprecates  than  myself, — that  young  man 
has  reformed ;  has  been  for  the  past  few  months  a  miracle 
of  sobriety,  decorum,  and  industry ;  has  taken,  thanks  to 
the  example  of — er — friends,  a  position  of  integrity  in  his 
father's  business,  of  filial  obedience  in  his  father's  household  ; 
is,  in  short,  a  paragon ;  and,  demn  me,  I  doubt  if  he's  his 
father's  son. 

Miss  Mary.  Enough,  sir !  You  are  waiting  for  my 
answer.  There  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  as  precise, 
as  brief,  and  as  formal  as  your  message.  Go  to  my  cousin ; 
say  that  you  saw  the  person  he  claims  as  his  relation ;  say 
that  you  found  her  a  poor  schoolmistress  in  a  mining-camp, 
dependent  for  her  bread  on  the.  scant  earnings  of  already 
impoverished  men,  dependent  for  her  honour  on  the  rude 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  355 

chivalry  of  outcasts  and  vagabonds ;  and  say  that  then  and 
there  she  repudiated  your  kinship,  and  respectfully  declined 
your  invitation. 

Starbottle  [aside"].  Ged  !  Star,  this  is  the — qr — female  of 
your  species  !  This  is  the  woman — the — er — one  woman — 
for  whom  you  are  responsible,  sir — personally  responsible  ! 

Miss  Mary  [coldly].     You  have  my  answer,  sir. 

Col.  Starbottle.  Permit  me — er — single  moment — a  single 
moment !  Between  the — er — present  moment  and  that  of 
my  departure  there  is  an — er — interval  of  twelve  hours. 
May  I,  at  the  close  of  that  interval,  again  present  myself, 
without  prejudice,  for  your  final  answer  ? 

Miss  Mary  [indifferently'].  As  you  will,  sir.  I  shall  be 
here. 

Col.  Starbottle.  Permit  me.  [Takes  her  hand  gallantly I\ 
Your  conduct  and  manner,  Miss  Morris,  remind  me — er — 
singularly  of — er — beautiful  creature — one  of  the — er — first 
families.  \Observing  Miss  MARY  regarding  him  amusedly, 
becomes  embarrassed^]  That  is — er — I  mean — er — er — 
good  morning,  Miss  Morris  !  [Passes  by  schoolhouse-door 
retreating  and  bowing,  and  picks  up  flowers  from  door-step -.] 
Good  morning ! 

Miss  Mary.  Excuse  me,  Col.  Starbottle  [with  winning 
politeness'],  but  I  fear  I  must  rob  you  of  those  flowers.  I 
recognise  them  now  as  the  offering  of  one  of  my  pupils.  I 
fear  I  must  revoke  my  gift  [taking  flowers  from  astonished 
ColonePs  hand'],  all  except  a  single  one  for  your  buttonhole. 
Have  you  any  choice,  or  shall  I  [archly]  choose  for  you  ? 
Then  it  shall  be  this.  [Begins  to  place  flowers  in  buttonhole, 
COL.  STARBOTTLE  exhibiting  extravagant  gratitude  in  dumb 
show.  Business  prolonged  through  Miss  MARY'S  speech."]  If 
I  am  not  wrong,  Colonel,  the  gentleman  to  whom  you  so 
kindly  pointed  out  the  road  this  morning  was  not  a  stranger 
to  you.  Ah  i  i  am  right.  There, — one  moment, — a  sprig 


356  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

of  green,  a  single  leaf,  would  set  off  the  pink  nicely.  Here 
he  is  known  only  as  "  Sandy."  You  know  the  absurd  habits 
of  this  camp.  Of  course  he  has  another  name.  There ! 
[releasing  the  Colonel] — it  is  much  prettier  now. 

Col.  Starbottle.  Ged,  madam !  The  rarest  exotic — the 
Victoria  Regina — is  not  as — er — graceful — er — tribute  ! 

Miss  Mary.     And  yet  you  refuse  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  ? 

Col.  Starbottle  [with  great  embarrassment,  'which  at  last 
resolves  itself  into  increased  dignity  of  manner].  What  you 
ask  is — er — er — impossible  !  You  are  right :  the — er — gen 
tleman  you  allude  to  is  known  to  me  under — er — er — another 
name.  But  honour — Miss  Morris,  honour  ! — seals  the  lips 
of  Col.  Starbottle.  [Aside]  If  she  should  know  he  was  a 
menial !  No  !  the  position  of  the  man  you  have  challenged, 
Star,  must  be  equal  to  your  own.  [Aloud.]  Anything, 
Miss  Morris,  but — er — that ! 

Miss  Mary  [smiling].     Be  it  so.     Adios,  Col.  Starbottle. 

Col.  Starbottle  [gallantly].     Au  revoir,  Miss  Morris. 

[Exit,  impressively,  left. 

Miss  Mary.  So  Sandy  conceals  another  name,  which 
he  withholds  from  Red  Gulch.  Well  !  pshaw !  What  is 
that  to  me  ?  The  camp  is  made  up  of  refugees, — men  who 
perhaps  have  good  reason  to  hide  a  name  that  may  be 
infamous,  the  name  that  would  publish  a  crime.  Nonsense  ! 
Crime  and  Sandy  !  No  !  Shame  and  guilt  do  not  hide  them 
selves  in  those  honest  but  occasionally  somewhat  bloodshot 
eyes.  Besides,  goodness  knows  !  the  poor  fellow's  weakness  is 
palpable  enough.  No,  that  is  not  the  reason ;  it  is  no  guilt 
that  keeps  his  name  hidden, — at  least,  not  his.  [Seating  her 
self  and  arranging  flowers  in  her  lap]  Poor  Sandy  !  he  must 
have  climbed  the  eastern  summit  to  get  this.  See,  the  rosv 
sunrise  still  lingers  in  its  very  petals  ;  the  dew  is  fresh  upon 
it.  Dear  little  mountain  baby  !  I  really  believe  that  fellow 
got  up  before  daylight  to  climb  that  giddy  height  and 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  357 

secure  its  virgin  freshness.  And  to  think  in  a  moment  of  spite 
I'd  have  given  it  to  that  bombastic  warrior  !  [Pause.]  That 
was  a  fine  offer  you  refused  just  now,  Miss  Mary.  Think 
of  it ;  a  home  of  luxury,  a  position  of  assured  respect  and 
homage  ;  the  life  I  once  led,  with  all  its  difficulties  smoothed 
away,  its  uncertainty  dispelled, — think  of  it  !  My  poor 
mother's  dream  fulfilled, — I,  her  daughter,  the  mistress  of 
affluence,  the  queen  of  social  power  !  What  a  temptation  ! 
Ah  !  Miss  Mary,  was  it  a  temptation  ?  Was  there  nothing  in 
your  free  life  here  that  stiffened  your  courage,  that  steeled 
the  adamant  of  your  refusal  ?  or  was  it  only  the  memory  of 
your  mother's  wrongs  ?  Luxury  and  wealth !  Could  you 
command  a  dwelling  more  charming  than  this  ?  Position 
and  respect !  Is  not  the  awful  admiration  of  these  lawless 
men  more  fascinating  than  the  perilous  flattery  of  gentlemen 
like  Col.  Starbottle  ?  Is  not  the  devotion  of  these  outcasts 
more  complimentary  than  the  lip-service  of  perfumed  gal 
lantry?  [Pause.]  It's  very  odd  he  doesn't  come.  I  wonder 
if  that  conceited  old  fool  said  anything  to  him.  [Rises,  and 
then  seats  herself  smiling.}  He  has  come.  He  is  dodging  in 
and  out  of  the  manganita  bushes  below  the  spring.  I  suppose 
he  imagines  my  visitor  still  here.  The  bashful  fool  !  If 
anybody  should  see  him,  it  would  be  enough  to  make  a  petty 
scandal !  I'll  give  him  a  talking-to.  [Pause.]  I  wonder  if 
the  ridiculous  fool  has  gone  to  sleep  in  those  bushes.  [Rises.] 
Well,  let  him  :  it  will  help  him  to  recover  his  senses  from 
last  night's  dissipation ;  and  you,  Miss  Mary,  it  is  high  time 
you  were  preparing  the  lessons  for  to-morrow.  [Goes  to 
schoolhouse,  enters  door,  and  slams  it  behind  her ;  after  a 
moment  reappears  with  empty  bucket}  Of  course  there's 
no  water,  and  I  am  dying  of  thirst.  [Goes  slowly  to  left, 
and  pauses  embarrassedly  and  bashfully,  presently  laughs, 
suddenly  frowns  and  assumes  an  appearance  of  indignation.'} 
Miss  Mary  Morris,  have  you  become  such  an  egregious 


358  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

fool  that  you  dare  not  satisfy  the  ordinary  cravings  of 
human  nature,  just  because  an  idle,  dissipated,  bashful 
blockhead — nonsense  1 

\Exit)  brandishing  pail. 


SCENE  3. — The  same. 

[A  pause.  SANDY'S  voice  without.}  This  way,  miss  :  the 
trail  is  easier. 

[Miss  MARY'S  voice  without.}  Never  mind  me  :  look 
after  the  bucket. 

Enter  SANDY,  carrying  bucket  with  water,  followed  by 
Miss  MARY.     SANDY  sets  bucket  down. 

Miss  Mary.  There  !  you've  spilt  half  of  it  If  it  had  been 
whisky,  you'd  have  been  more  careful. 

Sandy  [submissively].     Yes,  miss. 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  "Yes,  miss!"  The  man  will  drive 
me  crazy  with  his  saccharine  imbecility.  [Aloud.']  I  believe 
you  would  assent  to  anything,  even  if  I  said  you  were  an 
impostor  ! 

Sandy  [amazedly].     An  impostor,  Miss  Mary? 

Miss  Mary.  Well,  I  don't  know  what  other  term  you 
use  in  Red  Gulch  to  express  a  man  who  conceals  his  real 
name  under  another. 

Sandy  [embarrassed,  but  facing  Miss  MARY].  Has  any 
body  been  tellin'  ye  I  was  an  impostor,  miss?  Has  that 
derned  old  fool  that  I  saw  you  with 

Miss  Mary.  "  That  old  fool,"  as  you  call  him,  was  too 
honourable  a  gentleman  to  disclose  your  secret,  and  too 
loyal  a  friend  to  traduce  you  by  an  epithet-  Fear  nothing, 
Mr.  "  Sandy."  If  you  have  limited  your  confidence  to  one 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  359 

friend,  it  has  not  been  misplaced.  But,  dear  me,  don't 
think  /  wish  to  penetrate  your  secret.  No  !  The  little  I 
learned  was  accidental.  Besides,  his  business  was  with  me  : 
perhaps,  as  his  friend,  you  already  know  it. 

Sandy  [meekly].  Perhaps,  miss,  he  was  too  honourable  a 
gentleman  to  disclose  your  secret.  His  business  was  with 
me. 

Miss  Mary  \aside\.  He  has  taken  a  leaf  out  of  my 
book  !  He  is  not  so  stupid,  after  all.  \AloudJ\  I  have  no 
secret.  Col.  Starbottle  came  here  to  make  me  an  offer. 

Sandy  \recoiling\.     An  offer  ! 

Miss  Mary.  Of  a  home  and  independence.  \_AsideJ] 
Poor  fellow  !  how  pale  he  looks  !  [AloudJ]  Well  you  see,  I 
am  more  trustful  than  you.  I  will  tell  you  my  secret,  and 
you  shall  aid  me  with  your  counsel.  \They  sit  on  ledge  oj 
rocks.']  Listen  !  My  mother  had  a  cousin  once, — a  cousin 
cruel,  cowardly,  selfish,  and  dissolute.  She  loved  him,  as 
women  are  apt  to  love  such  men, — loved  him  so  that  she 
beguiled  her  own  husband  to  trust  his  fortunes  in  the  hands 
of  this  wretched  profligate.  The  husband  was  ruined,  dis 
graced.  The  wife  sought  her  cousin  for  help  for  her 
necessities.  He  met  her  with  insult,  and  proposed  that  she 
should  fly  with  him. 

Sandy.  One  moment,  miss :  it  wasn't  his  partner, — his 
partner's  wife — eh  ? 

Miss  Mary  \impatiently\.  It  was  the  helpless  wife  of  his 
own  blood,  I  tell  you.  The  husband  died  broke  n-he  irted. 
The  wife,  my  mother,  struggled  in  poverty,  under  the  shadow 
of  a  proud  name,  to  give  me  an  education,  and  died  while 
I  was  still  a  girl.  To-day  this  cousin, — this  more  than 
murderer  of  my  parents, — old,  rich,  self-satisfied,  reformed, 
invites  me,  by  virtue  of  that  kinship  he  violated  and  de 
spised,  to  his  home,  his  wealth,  his — his  family  roof-tree  I 
The  man  you  saw  was  his  agent. 


360  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Sandy.     And  you — 

Miss  Mary.     Refused. 

Sandy  [passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead].  You  did  wrong, 
Miss  Mary. 

Miss  Mary.     Wrong,  sir?     [Rising.] 

Sandy  \humbly  but  firmly].  Sit  ye  down,  Miss  Mary.  It 
ain't  for  ye  to  throw  your  bright  young  life  away  'yer  in  this 
place.  It  ain't  for  such  as  ye  to  soil  your  fair  young  hands 
by  raking  in  the  ashes  to  stir  up  the  dead  embers  of  a 
family  wrong.  It  ain't  for  ye — ye'll  pardon  me,  Miss  Mary, 
for  sayin'  it — it  ain't  for  ye  to  allow  when  it's  too  late  fur  a 
man  to  reform  or  to  go  back  of  his  reformation.  Don't  ye 
do  it,  miss,  fur  God's  sake, — don't  ye  do  it !  Harken,  Miss 
Mary.  If  ye'll  take  my  advice — a  fool's  advice,  maybe — 
ye'll  go.  And  when  I  tell  ye  that  that  advice,  if  ye  take  it, 
will  take  the  sunshine  out  of  these  hills,  the  colour  off  them 
trees,  the  freshness  outer  them  flowers,  the  heart's  blood 
outer  me, — ye'll  know  that  I  ain't  thinkin'  o'  myself,  but  of 
ye.  And  I  wouldn't  say  this  much  to  ye,  Miss  Mary,  but 
you're  goin'  away.  There's  a  flower,  miss,  you're  wearin'  in 
your  bosom, — a  flower  I  picked  at  daybreak  this  morning, 
five  miles  away  in  the  snow.  The  wind  was  blowing  chill 
around  it,  so  that  my  hands  that  dug  for  it  were  stiff  and 
cold  ;  but  the  roots  were  warm,  Miss  Mary,  as  they  are  now 
in  your  bosom.  Ye'll  keep  that  flower,  Miss  Mary,  in  re 
membrance  of  my  love  for  ye,  that  kept  warm  and  blossomed 
through  the  snow.  And,  don't  start,  Miss  Mary, — for  ye'll 
leave  behind  ye,  as  I  did,  the  snow  and  rocks  through  which 
it  bloomed.  I  axes  your  parding,  miss — I'm  hurtin'  yer 
feelins,  sure. 

Miss  Mary  [rising  with  agitation."]  Nothing, — nothing; 
but  climbing  these  stupid  rocks  has  made  me  giddy  :  that's 
all.  Your  arm.  [To  SANDY  impatiently.}  Can't  you  give 
me  your  arm?  [SANDY  supports  Miss  MARY  awkwardly 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  361 

toward  schoolhouse.  At  door  Miss  MARY  pauses.]  But  if 
this  reformation  is  so  easy,  so  acceptable,  why  have  you  not 
profited  by  it  ?  Why  have  you  not  reformed  ?  Why  have 
I  found  you  here,  a  disgraced,  dissipated,  anonymous  out 
cast,  whom  an  honest  girl  dare  not  know  ?  Why  do  you 
presume  to  preach  to  me  ?  Have  you  a  father  ? 

Sandy.  Hush !  Miss  Mary,  hush !  I  had  a  father. 
Harken  !  All  that  you  have  suffered  from  a  kinship  even 
so  far  removed,  I  have  known  from  the  hands  of  one  who 
should  have  protected  me.  My  father  was — but  no  matter. 
You,  Miss  Mary,  came  out  of  your  trials  like  gold  from  the 
washing.  I  was  only  the  dirt  and  gravel  to  be  thrown 
away.  It  is  too  late,  Miss  Mary,  too  late.  My  father  has 
never  sought  me,  would  turn  me  from  his  doors  had  I 
sought  him.  Perhaps  he  is  only  right. 

Miss  Mary.  But  why  should  he  be  so  different  from 
others  ?  Listen  !  This  very  cousin  whose  offer  I  refused 
had  a  son, — wild,  wayward,  by  all  report  the  most  degraded 
of  men.  It  was  part  of  my  cousin's  reformation  to  save  this 
son,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  snatch  him  from  that  terrible 
fate  which  seemed  to  be  his  only  inheritance. 

Sandy  [eagerly].     Yes,  miss. 

Miss  Mary.  To  restore  him  to  a  regenerated  home. 
With  this  idea  he  followed  his  prodigal  to  California.  I, 
you  understand,  was  only  an  after-thought  consequent  upon 
his  success.  He  came  to  California  upon  this  pilgrimage  two 
years  ago.  He  had  no  recollection,  so  they  tell  me,  by  which 
he  could  recognise  this  erring  son  ;  and  at  first  his  search  was 
wild,  profitless,  and  almost  hopeless.  But  by  degrees,  and  with 
a  persistency  that  seemed  to  increase  with  his  hopelessness, 
he  was  rewarded  by  finding  some  clue  to  him  at — at — at — 

Sandy  [excitedly].     At  Poker  Flat  ? 

Miss  Mary.  Ah  !  perhaps  you  know  the  story, — at  Poker 
Flat.  He  traced  him  to  the  Mission  of  San  Carmel — 


362  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Sandy.     Yes,  miss;  go  on. 

Miss  Mary.  He  was  more  successful  than  he  deserved, 
perhaps.  He  found  him.  I  see  you  know  the  story. 

Sandy.  Found  him  !  found  him  !  Miss,  did  you  say 
found  him  ? 

Miss  Mary.  Yes,  found  him.  And  to-day  Alexander 
Morton,  the  reclaimed  prodigal,  is  part  of  the  household  I 
am  invited  to  join.  So  you  see,  Mr.  Sandy,  there  is  still 
hope.  What  has  happened  to  him  is  only  a  promise  to  you. 
Eh  !  Mr.  Sandy — what  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Your 
exertion  this  morning,  perhaps.  Speak  to  me  !  Gracious 
heavens,  he  is  going  mad  !  No  !  no  !  Yes — it  cannot 
be — it  is — he  has  broken  his  promise :  he  is  drunk  again. 

Sandy  [rising,  excited  and  confused~\.  Excuse  me,  miss, 
I  am  a  little  onsartain  here  [pointing  to  his  head'}.  I  can't 
— I  disremember — what  you  said  just  now :  ye  mentioned 
the  name  o'  that  prodigal  that  was  found. 

Miss  Mary.  Certainly :  compose  yourself, — my  cousin's 
son,  Alexander  Morton.  Listen,  Sandy :  you  promised  me, 
you  know,  you  said  for  my  sake  you  would  not  touch  a 
drop. 

[Enter  cautiously  toward  schoolhouse  the  DUCHESS  ; 
stops  on  observing  SANDY,  and  hides  behind 
rock. 

Sandy  [still  bewildered  and  incoherent],  I  reckon.  Harken, 
miss;  is  that  thar  thing  [pointing  towards  rock  where 
DUCHESS  is  concealed}— is  that  a  tree,  or — or — a  woman? 
Is  it  sorter  movin'  this  way  ? 

Miss  Mary  [laying  her  hand  on  SANDY'S].  Recover  your 
senses,  for  heaven's  sake,  Sandy, — for  my  sake  !  It  is  only 
a  tree. 

Sandy  [rising].  Then,  miss,  I've  broke  my  word  with 
yr  :  I'm  drunk.  P'r'aps  I'd  better  be  a-goin'  \lookirf  round 
confusedly]  till  I'm  sober.  {Going  toward  L. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  363 

Miss  Mary  [seizing  his  hanoT\.  But  you'll  see  me  again, 
Sandy  :  you'll  come  here— before — before — I  go? 

Sandy.  Yes,  miss, — before  ye  go.  [Staggers  stupidly 
towards.  Aside.]  Found  him  !  found  Alexander  Morton  ! 
It's  a  third  time,  Sandy,  the  third  time  :  it  means — it  means 
you're  mad  !  [Laughs  wildly,  and  exit  L.] 

Miss  Mary  [springing  to  her  feet].  There  is  a  mystery 
behind  all  this,  Mary  Morris,  that  you — you — must  discover. 
That  man  was  not  drunk :  he  had  not  broken  his  promise 
to  me.  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  I  have  it.  I  will  accept 
the  offer  of  this  Alexander  Morton.  I  will  tell  him  the 
story  of  this  helpless  man,  this  poor,  poor,  reckless  Sandy. 
With  the  story  of  his  own  son  before  his  eyes,  he  cannot 
but  interest  himself  in  his  fate.  He  is  rich  :  he  will  aid  me 
in  my  search  for  Sandy's  father,  for  Sandy's  secret.  At  the 
worst,  I  can  only  follow  the  advice  of  this  wretched  man, — 
an  advice  so  generous,  so  kind,  so  self-sacrificing.  Ah  ! — 


SCENE  4. — The  same.  Enter  the  DUCHESS,  showily  and 
extravagantly  dressed.  Her  manner  at  first  is  a  mixture 
of  alternate  shyness  and  bravado. 

The  Duchess.  I  heerd  tell  that  you  was  goin'  down  to 
'Frisco  to-morrow,  for  your  vacation ;  and  I  couldn't  let  ye 
go  till  I  came  to  thank  ye  for  your  kindness  to  my  boy, — 
little  Tommy. 

Miss  Mary  [aside,  rising  abstractedly,  and  recalling 
herself  with  an  effort.]  I  see, — a  poor  outcast,  the  mother, 
of  my  anonymous  pupil.  \Aloud^\  Tommy  !  a  good  boy, 
— a  dear,  good  little  boy. 

The  Duchess.  Thankee,  miss,  thankee.  If  I  am  his 
mother,  thar  ain't  a  sweeter,  dearer,  better  boy  lives  than 
him.  And,  if  I  ain't  much  as  says  it,  thar  ain't  a  sweeter, 


364  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

dearer,  angeler  teacher  than  he's  got.  It  ain't  for  you  to 
be  complimented  by  me,  miss;  it  ain't  for  such  as  me 
to  be  comin'  here  in  broad  day  to  do  it,  neither ;  but  I 
come  to  ask  a  favour, — not  for  me,  miss,  but  for  the  darling 
boy. 

Miss  Mary  [aside,  abstractedly].  This  poor,  degraded 
creature  will  kill  me  with  her  wearying  gratitude.  Sandy  will 
not  return,  of  course,  while  she  is  here.  \AloudJ]  Go  on. 
If  I  can  help  you  or  yours,  be  assured  I  will 

The  Duchess.  Thankee,  miss.  You  see,  thar's  no  one 
the  boy  has  any  claim  on  but  me,  and  I  ain't  the  proper 
person  to  bring  him  up.  I  did  allow  to  send  him  to  'Frisco 
last  year ;  but  when  I  heerd  talk  that  a  schoolma'am  was 
comin'  up,  and  you  did,  and  he  sorter  tuk  to  ye  natril  from 
the  first,  I  guess  I  did  well  to  keep  him  'yer.  For  O  miss, 
he  loves  ye  so  much  ;  and,  if  you  could  hear  him  talk  in  his 
purty  way,  ye  wouldn't  refuse  him  anything. 

Miss  Mary  \unth  fatigued  politeness  and  increasing  impa 
tience^  I  see,  I  see — pray  go  on. 

The  Duchess  \with  quiet  persistency^  It's  natril  he  should 
take  to  ye,  miss  ;  for  his  father,  when  I  first  knowed  him, 
miss,  was  a  gentleman  like  yourself;  and  the  boy  must  for 
get  me  sooner  or  later — and  I  ain't  goin'  to  cry  about  that. 

Miss  Mary  \irnp atiently\.  Pray  tell  me  how  I  can  serve  you. 

The  Duchess.  Yes,  miss ;  you  see,  I  came  to  ask  you  to 
take  my  Tommy, — God  bless  him  for  the  sweetest,  bestest 
boy  that  lives — to  take  him  with  you.  I've  money  plenty ; 
and  it's  all  yours  and  his.  Put  him  in  some  good  school, 
whar  ye  kin  go  and  see,  and  sorter  help  him  to — forget — 
his  mother.  Do  with  him  what  you  like.  The  worst  you 
can  do  will  be  kindness  to  what  he  would  learn  with  me. 
Ypu  will — I  know  you  will,  won't  you?  You  will 
make  him  as  pure  and  as  good  as  yourself;  and  when 
he  has  grown  up,  and  is  a  gentleman,  you  will  tell  him 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  365 

his  father's  name, — the  name  that  hasn't  passed  my  lips  foi 
years, — the  name  of  Alexander  Morton. 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  Alexander  Morton  !  The  prodigal ! 
Ah  !  I  see, — the  ungathered  husks  of  his  idle  harvest. 

The  Duchess.  You  hesitate,  Miss  Mary  [seizing  her\. 
Do  not  take  your  hand  away.  You  are  smiling.  God  bless 
you !  I  know  you  will  take  my  boy.  Speak  to  me,  Miss  Mary. 

Miss  Mary  [aloud'].  I  will  take  your  child.  More  than 
that,  I  will  take  him  to  his  father. 

The  Duchess.  No,  no  !  for  God's  sake,  no,  Miss  Mary ! 
He  has  never  seen  him  from  his  birth :  he  does  not  know 
him.  He  will  disown  him.  He  will  curse  him, — will  curse 
me ! 

Miss  Mary.  Why  should  he  ?  Surely  his  crime  is  worse 
than  yours. 

The  Duchess.  Hear  me,  Miss  Mary.  [Aside]  How  can 
I  tell  her?  [Aloud.]  One  moment,  miss.  I  was  once — ye 
may  not  believe  it,  miss — as  good,  as  pure,  as  you.  I  had 
a  husband,  the  father  of  this  child.  He  was  kind,  good, 
easy,  forgiving, — too  good  for  me,  miss,  too  simple  and  un 
suspecting.  He  was  what  the  world  calls  a  fool,  miss  :  he 
loved  me  too  well, — the  kind  o'  crime,  miss, — beggin'  your 
pardon,  and  all  precepts  to  the  contrairy, — the  one  thing  that 
women  like  me  never  forgives.  He  had  a  pardner,  miss, 
that  governed  him  as  he  never  governed  me  ;  that  held  him 
with  the  stronger  will,  and  maybe  me  too.  I  was  young, 
miss, — no  older  than  yourself  then ;  and  I  ran  away  with 
him, — left  all,  and  ran  away  with  my  husband's  pardner. 
My  husband — nat'rally — took  to  drink.  I  axes  your  pardin', 
miss  ;  but  ye'll  see  now,  allowin'  your  larnin',  that  Alexander 
Morton  ain't  the  man  as  will  take  my  child. 

Miss  Mary.  Nonsense  !  you  are  wrong.  He  has  .  re 
formed  ;  he  has  been  restored  to  his  home, — your  child's 


366  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

home, — your  home  if  you  will  but  claim  it.     Do  not  fear : 
I  will  make  that  right. 

Enter  SANDY,  slowly  and  sheepishly ,  R.;  stops  on  observing  the 
DUCHESS,  and  stands  amazed  and  motionless. 

Miss  Mary  [observing  SANDY — aside"].  He  has  returned. 
Poor  fellow  !  How  shall  I  get  rid  of  this  woman  ?  \^AloudI\ 
Enough  !  If  you  are  sincere,  I  will  take  your  child,  and, 
God  help  me  !  bring  him  to  his  home  and  yours.  Are  you 
satisfied  ? 

The  Duchess.  Thank  ye  !  Thank  ye,  miss ;  but — but 
thar's  a  mistake  somewhar.  In  course  it's  natural.  Ye 
don't  know  the  father  of  that  child,  my  boy  Tommy,  under 
the  name  o7  Alexander  Morton.  Yer  thinkin',  like  as  not,  of 
another  man.  The  man  I  mean  lives  'yer,  in  this  camp : 
they  calls  him  Sandy,  miss, — Sandy  ! 

Miss  Mary  [after  a  pause,  coming  forward  passionately]. 
Hush !  I  have  given  you  my  answer,  be  it  Alexander 
Morton  or  Sandy.  Go  now  :  bring  me  the  child  this  evening 
at  my  house,  I  will  meet  you  there.  \Leads  the  DUCHESS 
to  wing.  The  DUCHESS  endeavours  to  fall  at  her  feet ^\ 

Duchess.     God  bless  you,  miss  ! 

Miss  Mary  \Jmrriedly  embracing  her •.]  No  more,  no  more 
— but  go  ! 

Exit  DUCHESS.     Miss  MARY  returns  hurriedly 
to  centre,  confronting  SANDY. 

Miss  Mary  \to  SANDY,  hurriedly  and  excitedly].  You 
have  heard  what  that  woman  said.  I  do  not  ask  you 
under  what  alias  you  are  known  here  :  I  only  ask  a  single 
question, — Is  she  your  wife  ?  are  you  the  father  of  her  child  ? 

Sandy  \sinking  upon  his  knees  before  her,  and  coveriug  his 
face  with  his  hands].  I  am  ! 

Miss  Mary.  Enough  !  \Taking  flower  from  her  bosom.] 
Here,  I  give  you  back  the  flower  you  gave  me  this  morning. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  367 

It  has  faded  and  died  here  upon  my  breast.  But  I  shall 
replace  it  with  your  foundling, — the  child  of  that  woman, 
born  like  that  flower  in  the  snow  !  And  I  go  now,  Sandy, 
and  leave  behind  me,  as  you  said  this  morning,  the  snow 
and  rocks  in  which  it  bloomed.  Good-bye  !  Farewell,  fare 
well — forever  !  [Goes  toward  schoolhouse  as — 

Enter  COL.  STARBOTTLE. 

Miss  Mary  [to  STARBOTTLE].  You  are  here  in  season, 
sir.  You  must  have  come  for  an  answer  to  your  question. 
You  must  first  give  me  one  to  mine.  Who  is  this  man  [pointing 
to  SANDY],  the  man  you  met  upon  the  rocks  this  morning? 
Co!.  Starbottle.  Ahem  !  I  am — er — now  fully  prepared 
and  responsible,  I  may  say,  miss — er — personally  responsible, 
to  answer  that  question.  When  you  asked  it  this  morning, 
the  ordinary  courtesy  of  the — er — code  of  honour  threw  a 
— er — cloak  around  the — er — antecedents  of  the — er — man 
whom  I  had — er — elected,  by  a  demand  for  personal  satis 
faction,  to  the  equality  of  myself,  an — er — gentleman  ! 
That — er — cloak  is  now  removed.  I  have  waited  six  hours 
for  an  apology  or  a — er — reply  to  my  demand.  I  am  now 
free  to  confess  that  the — er — person  you  allude  to  was  first 
known  by  me,  three  months  ago,  as  an  inebriated  menial, — 
a  groom  in  the  household  of  my  friend  Don  Jos£  Castro, — 
by  the — er — simple  name  of  "  Diego. " 

Miss  Mary  [slowly],     I  am  satisfied.     I  accept  my  cousin's 
invitation.    [Exit  slowly ',  supported  by  COL.  STARBOTTLE,  R.] 
\As  STARBOTTLE  and  Miss  MARY  exeunt^.,  CONCHO 
and  HOP  SING  enter  cautiously  L.    SANDY  slowly 
rises  to  his  feet,  passes  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head,  looks  around  toward  exit  of  STARBOTTLE 
and  Miss  MARY. 

Sandy  [slowly,  but  with   more  calmness   of  demeanour], 
Gone,  gone — forever  !    No  :  I  am  not  mad,  nor  crazed  with 


368  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

drink.  My  hands  no  longer  tremble.  There  is  no  con 
fusion  here.  [Feeling  his  forehead.']  I  heard  them  all.  It 
was  no  dream.  I  heard  her  every  word.  Alexander 
Morton,  yes,  they  spoke  of  Alexander  Morton.  She  is 
going  to  him,  to  my  father.  She  is  going — she,  Mary,  my 
cousin — she  is  going  to  my  father.  He  has  been  seeking 
me — has  found — ah  !  [Groans.]  No,  no,  Sandy!  Be 
patient,  be  calm :  you  are  not  crazy — no,  no,  good  Sandy, 
good  old  boy  !  Be  patient,  be  patient :  it  is  coming,  it  is 
coming.  Yes,  I  see  :  some  one  has  leaped  into  my  place  ; 
some  one  has  leaped  into  the  old  man's  arms.  Some  one 
will  creep  into  her  heart !  No  !  by  God !  No  !  I  am 
Alexander  Morton.  Yes,  yes  !  But  how,  how  shall  I  prove 
it  ? — how  ?  Who  [CONCHO  steps  cautiously  forward  towards 
SANDY  unobserved]  will  believe  the  vagabond,  the  outcast — 
my  God  ! — the  crazy  drunkard  ? 

Concha  [advancing,  and  laying  his  hand  on  SANDY]. 
I  will ! 

Sandy  [staggering  back  amazedly]     You  ! 

Concho.  Yes — I — I — Concho  !  You  know  me,  Diego, 
you  know  me, — Concho,  the  major-domo  of  the  Blessed 
Innocents.  Ha  !  you  know  me  now.  Yes,  I  have  come  to 
save  you.  I  have  come  to  make  you  strong.  So  !  I  have 
come  to  help  you  strip  the  Judas  that  has  stepped  into 
your  place, — the  sham  prodigal  that  has  had  the  fatted  calf 
and  the  ring, — ah  !  ah  ! 

Sandy.     You  ?     You  d.o  not  know  me  ! 

Concho.  Ah  !  you  think,  you  think,  eh  ?  Listen  !  Since 
you  left  me  I  have  tracked  him — the  impostor,  this  Judas, 
this  coyote — step  by  step,  until  his  tracks  crossed  yours ; 
and  then  I  sought  you  out.  I  know  all.  I  found  a  letter 
you  had  dropped ;  that  brought  me  to  Poker  Flat.  Ah  !  you 
start  !  I  have  seen  those  who  knew  you  as  Alexander 
Morton.  You  see  !  Ah  !  I  am  wise. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  369 

Sandy  \aside\  It  is  true.  \AloudI\  But  [suspiciously] 
why  have  you  done  this  ?  You,  Concho  ? — you  were  not 
my  friend. 

Concho.  No,  but  he  is  my  enemy.  Ah  !  you  start.  Look 
at  me,  Alexander  Morton,  Sandy,  Diego  !  You  knew  a 
man,  strong,  active,  like  yourself.  Eh  !  look  at  me  now  ! 
Look  at  me,  a  cripple !  Eh !  lame  and  crushed  here 
[pointing  to  his  !eg\,  broken  and  crushed  here  [pointing 
to  his  hearf\,  by  him, — the  impostor  !  Listen,  Diego  !  The 
night  I  was  sent  to  track  you  from  the  rancho,  he — this 
man — struck  me  from  the  wall,  dashed  me  to  the  earth,  and 
made  my  body,  broken  and  bruised,  a  stepping-stone  to  leap 
the  wall  into  your  place,  Diego — into  your  father's  heart 
— into  my  master's  home.  They  found  me  dead,  they 
thought, — no,  not  dead,  Diego  !  It  was  sad,  they  said, — 
unfortunate.  They  nursed  me  ;  they  talked  of  money — eh  ! 
Diego  \ — money  !  They  would  have  pensioned  me  to  hush 
scandal — eh  !  I  was  a  dog,'  a  foreigner,  a  Greaser  !  Eh  ! 
That  is  why  I  am  here.  No  !  I  love  you  not,  Diego  ; 
you  are  of  his  race ;  but  I  hate — Mother  of  God  ! — I 
hate  him  ! 

Sandy  [rising  to  his  feet,  aside~\.  Good  !  I  begin  to  feel 
my  courage  return ;  my  nerves  are  stronger.  Courage, 
Sandy !  [AloudJ]  Be  it  so,  Concho  :  there  is  my  hand  ! 
We  will  help  each  other, — you  to  my  birthright,  I  to  your 
revenge  !  Hark  ye  !  [SANDY'S  manner  becomes  more  calm 
and serious.~\  This  impostor  is  no  craven,  no  coyote.  Who- 
ever  he  is,  he  must  be  strong.  He  has  most  plausible 
evidences.  We  must-  have  rigid  proofs.  I  will  go  with  you 
to  Poker  Flat.  There  is  one  man,  if  he  be  living,  knows 
me  better  than  any  man  who  lives.  He  has  done  me 
wrong, — a  great  wrong,  Concho, — but  I  will  forgive  him. 
I  will  do  more, — I  will  ask  his  forgiveness.  He  will  be  a 

VOL.  I.  2   A. 


370  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

witness  no  man  dare  gainsay — my  partner — God  help  him 
and  forgive  him  as  I  do  ! — John  Oakhurst. 

Concho.     Oakhurst  your  partner  ! 

Sandy  [angrily].  Yes.  Look  ye,  Concho,  he  has 
wronged  me  in  a  private  way  :  that  is  my  business,  not 
yours ;  but  he  was  my  partner, — no  one  shall  abuse  him 
before  me. 

Concho.  Be  it  so  !  Then  sink  here  !  Rot  here !  Go 
back  to  your  husks,  O  prodigal !  wallow  in  the  ditches  of 
this  camp,  and  see  your  birthright  sold  for  a  dram  of 
aguardiente !  Lie  here,  dog  and  coyote  that  you  are,  with 
your  mistress  under  the  protection  of  your  destroyer  !  For 
I  tell  you — I,  Concho,  the  cripple — that  the  man  who  struck 
me  down,  the  man  who  stepped  into  your  birthright,  the 
man  who  to-morrow  welcomes  your  sweetheart  in  his  arms, 
who  holds  the  custody  of  your  child,  is  your  partner — John 
Oakhurst ! 

Sandy  \_who  has  been  sinking  under  CONCHO'S  words, 
rising  convulsively  to  his  feef\  God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner !  [Faints. ~\ 

Concho  \standing  over  his  prostrate  body  exultingly\.  I  am 
right  You  are  wise,  Concho  !  you  are  wise !  You  have 
found  Alexander  Morton  ! 

Hop  Sing  [advancing  slowly  to  SANDY'S  side,  and  extending 
open  palm\  Me  washee  shirt  flo  you,  flowty  dozen  hab. 
You  no  payee  me.  Me  wantee  twenty  dollar  hep.  Sabe. 

[Curtain.'] 

END    OF   ACT   IL 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  371 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  i. — The  bank  parlour  of  Morton  6°  Son,  San  Francisco. 
Room  richly  furnished ;  two  square  library  desks  left  and 
right.  At  right,  safe  in  wall ;  at  left,  same  with  practicable 
doors.  Folding  door  in  flat  c.,  leading  to  counting-room. 
Door  in  left  to  private  room  of  Alexander  Morton,  sen.; 
door  in  right  to  private  room  of  Morton,  jun.  ALEXANDER 
MORTON,  sen.,  discovered  at  desk  R.,  opening  and  reading 
letter 

Morton,  sen.  [laying  down  letter].  Well,  well !  the  usual 
story  !  Letters  from  all  sorts  of  people  who  have  done  or 
intend  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  my  reclaimed  prodigal. 
[ReadsJ]  "  Dear  Sir  :  five  years  ago  I  loaned  some  money  to  a 
stranger  who  answers  the  description  of  your  recovered  son. 
He  will  remember  Jim  Parker, — Limping  Jim,  of  Poker 
Flat.  Being  at  present  short  of  funds,  please  send  twenty 
dollars,  amount  loaned,  by  return  mail.  If  not  convenient, 
five  dollars  will  do  as  instalment. "  Pshaw !  \Throws  letter 
aside  and  takes  up  another^  "  Dear  Sir :  I  invite  your 
attention  to  enclosed  circular  for  a  proposed  Home  for 
Dissipated  and  Anonymous  Gold-Miners.  Your  well-known 
reputation  for  liberality,  and  your  late  valuable  experience 
in  the  reformation  of  your  son,  will  naturally  enlist  your 
broadest  sympathies.  We  enclose  a  draft  for  five  thousand 
dollars  for  your  signature."  We  shall  see.  Another  :  "  Dear 
Sir :  the  Society  for  the  Formation  of  Bible  Classe?  in  the 


372  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Upper  Stanislaus  acknowledge  your  recent  munificent  gift 
of  five  hundred  dollars  to  the  cause.  Last  Sabbath  Brother 
Hawkins  of  Poker  Flat  related  with  touching  effect  the  story 
of  your  prodigal  to  an  assemblage  of  over  two  hundred 
miners.  Owing  to  unusual  expenses,  we  regret  to  be  com 
pelled  to  draw  upon  you  for  five  hundred  dollars  more." 
So  !  [Putting  down  letter J]  If  we  were  given  to  pride  and 
vainglory,  we  might  well  be  puffed  up  with  the  fame  of  our 
works  and  the  contagion  of  our  example :  yet  I  fear  that, 
with  the  worldly-minded,  this  praise  of  charity  to  others  is 
only  the  prayerful  expectation  of  some  personal  application 
to  the  praiser.  \Rings  hand-bell.~\ 

Enter  JACKSON. 

[To  JACKSON.]  File  these  letters  [handing  letters]  with  the 
others.  There  is  no  answer.  Has  young  Mr.  Alexander 
come  in  yet  ? 

Jackson.  He  only  left  here  an  hour  ago.  It  was  steamer 
day  yesterday :  he  was  up  all  night,  sir. 

Old  Morton    [aside].     True.     And   the  night  before  he 
travelled  all  night,  riding  two  hours  ahead  of  one  of  our 
defaulting  agents,  and  saved  the  bank  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars.     Certainly  his  devotion  to  business  is  unremitting. 
\AloudJ\     Any  news  from  Col.  Starbottle? 

Jackson.     He  left  this  note,  sir,  early  this  morning. 

Old  Morton  [takes  it  and  reads].  "  I  think  I  may  say, 
on  my  own  personal  responsibility,  that  the  mission  is  suc 
cessful.  Miss  Morris  will  arrive  to-night  with  a  female 
attendant  and  child."  [To  JACKSON.]  That  is  all,  sir. 
Stop  !  Has  any  one  been  smoking  here  ? 

Jackson.     Not  to  my  knowledge,  sir. 

Old  Morton.  There  was  a  flavour  of  stale  tobacco-smoke 
in  the  room  this  morning  when  I  entered,  and  ashes  on  the 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  373 

carpet.     I  know  that  young  Mr.  Alexander  has  abandoned 
the  pernicious  habit.     See  that  it  does  not  occur  again. 

Jackson.    Yes,  sir.     [Aside]     I  must  warn  Mr.  Alexander 
that  his  friends  must  be  more  careful ;  and  yet  those  ashes 
were  good  for  a  deposit  of  fifty  thousand. 
Old  Morton.     Is  any  one  waiting  ? 

Jackson.     Yes,  sir, — Don  Jose  Castro  and  Mr.  Capper. 
Old  Morton.     Show  in  the    Don  :   the   policeman   can 
wait. 

Jackson.     Yes,  sir.  \Exit% 

Old  Morton  [taking  up  STARBOTTLE'S  note].  "  Miss  Morris 
will  arrive  to-night."  And  yet  he  saw  her  only  yesterday. 
This  is  not  like  her  mother :  no.  She  would  never  have  for 
given  and  forgotten  so  quickly.  Perhaps  she  knew  not  my  sin 
and  her  mother's  wrongs  ;  perhaps  she  has — has — Christian 
forgiveness  [sarcastically]  \  perhaps,  like  my  prodigal,  she 
will  be'  immaculately  perfect.  Well,  well !  at  least  her  pre 
sence  will  make  my  home  less  lonely.  "  An  attendant  and 
child."  A  child  !  Ah  !  if  Jie,  my  boy,  my  Alexander,  were 
still  a  child,  I  might  warm  this  cold,  cold  heart  in  his  sun 
shine  !  Strange  that  I  cannot  reconstruct  from  this  dutiful, 
submissive,  obedient,  industrious  Alexander, — this  redeemed 
outcast,  this  son  who  shares  my  life,  my  fortunes,  my  heart, 
— the  foolish,  wilful,  thoughtless,  idle  boy  that  once  defied 
me.  I  remember  [musing  with  a  smile]  how  the  little  rascal, 
ha !  ha  !  once  struck  me, — struck  me ! — when  I  corrected 
him  :  ha  !  ha  !  \Rubbing  his  hands  with  amusement,  and  then 
suddenly  becoming  grave  and  lugubrious]  No,  no  !  These 
are  the  whisperings  of  the  flesh.  Why  should  I  find  fault 
with  him  for  being  all  that  a  righteous  conversion  demands, 
— all  that  I  asked  and  prayed  for  ?  No,  Alexander  Morton, 
it  is  you,  you  who  are  not  yet  regenerate.  It  is  you  who  are 
ungrateful  to  Him  who  blessed  you,  to  Him  whose  guiding 
hand  led  you  to — 


374  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Enter  JACKSON. 
Jackson.     Don  Jose*  Castro. 

Enter  DON  Jos£ 

Don  Jose.  A  thousand  pardons,  sefior,  for  interrupting 
you  in  the  hours  of  business  ;  but  it  is — it  is  of  business  I 
would  speak.  [Looking  around J] 

Old  Morton  [to  JACKSON].  You  can  retire.  [Exit  JACK 
SON.]  Be  seated,  Mr.  Castro  :  I  am  at  your  service. 

Don  Jose.     It  is  of  your — your — son — 

Old  Morton.  Our  firm  is  Morton  &  Son  :  in  business  we 
are  one,  Mr.  Castro. 

Don  Jose.  Bueno  !  Then  to  you  as  to  him  I  will  speak. 
Here  is  a  letter  I  received  yesterday.  It  has  significance, 
importance  perhaps.  But,  whatever  it  is,  it  is  something  for 
you,  not  me,  to  know.  If  I  am  wronged  much,  Don  Alex- 
andro,  you,  you  are  wronged  stiU  more.  Shall  I  read  it  ? 
Good  !  \ReadsI\  "  The  man  to  whom  you  have  affianced 
your  daughter  is  not  the  son  of  Alexander  Morton.  Have 
a  care.  If  I  do  not  prove  him  an  impostor  at  the  end  of  six 
days,  believe  me  one,  and  not  your  true  friend  and  servant, 
CONCHO."  In  six  days,  Don  Alexandro,  the  year  of  probation 
is  over,  and  I  have  promised  my  daughter's  hand  to  your 
son.  {Hands  letter  to  MORTON.] 

Old  Morton  [ringing  belt].     Is  that  all,  Mr.  Castro  ? 

Don  Jose.  All !  Mr.  Castro  ?  Carramba !  is  it  not 
enough  ? 

Enter  JACKSON. 

Old  Morton  [to  JACKSON].  You  have  kept  a  record  of 
this  business  during  the  last  eighteen  months.  Look  at  this 
letter.  [Handing  letter."]  Is  the  handwriting  familiar? 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  375 

Jackson  [taking  letter].  Can't  say,  sir.  The  form  is  the 
old  one. 

Old  Morton.  How  many  such  letters  have  you  re 
ceived  ? 

Jackson.  Four  hundred  and  forty-one,  sir.  This  is  the 
four  hundred  and  forty-second  application  for  your  son's 
position,  sir. 

Don  Jose.  Pardon  !  This  is  not  an  application  :  it  is 
only  information  or  caution. 

Old  Morton  [to  JACKSON].  How  many  letters  of  infor 
mation  or  caution  have  we  received  ? 

Jackson.     This  makes  seven  hundred  and  eighty-one,  sir. 
Old  Morton.     How,    sir !     \_Quickly  ^\     There  were  but 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-nine  last  night. 

Jackson.  Beg  pardon,  sir !  The  gentleman  who  carried 
Mr.  Alexander's  valise  from  the  boat  was  the  seven  hundred 
and  eightieth. 

Old  Morton.     Explain  yourself,  sir. 

Jackson.  He  imparted  to  me,  while  receiving  his  stipend, 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  believe  young  Mr.  Alexander  was 
your  son.  An  hour  later,  sir,  he  also  imparted  to  me  con 
fidentially  that  he  believed  you  were  his  father,  and  requested 
the  loan  of  five  dollars,  to  be  repaid  by  you,  to  enable  him 
to  purchase  a  clean  shirt,  and  appear  before  you  in  respect 
able  condition.  He  waited  for  you  an  hour,  and  expressed 
some  indignation  that  he  had  not  an  equal  show  with  others, 
to  throw  himself  into  your  arms. 

Don  Jose  [rising,  aside,  and  uplifting  his  hands'].  Car- 
ramba !  These  Americanos  are  of  the  devil !  [Aloud.] 
Enough,  Don  Alexandro  !  Then  you  think  this  letter  is 
only  worth — 

Old  Morton.  One  moment.  I  can  perhaps  tell  you  ex 
actly  its  market  value.  [To  JACKSON.]  Go  on,  sir. 

Jackson.     At  half-past  ten,  sir,  then  being  slightly  under 


376  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

the  influence  of  liquor,  he  accepted  the  price  of  a  deck 
passage  to  Stockton. 

Old  Morton.     How  much  wa*  that,  sir  ? 

Jackson.     Fifty  cents. 

Old  Morton.  Exactly  so  !  There  you  have,  sir  [to  DON 
JOSE],  the  market  value  of  the  information  you  have  received. 
I  would  advise  you,  as  a  business  matter,  not  to  pay  more. 
As  a  business  matter,  you  can  at  any  time  draw  upon  us  for 
the  amount.  [To  JACKSON.]  Admit  Mr.  Capper.  \_Exit 
JACKSON.] 

Don  Jose  [rising  with  dignity].  This  is  an  insult,  Don 
Alexandro. 

Old  Mortoji.  You  are  wrong,  Mr.  Castro  :  it  is  business, 
sought,  I  believe,  by  yourself.  Now  that  it  is  transacted, 
I  beg  you  to  dine  with  me  to-morrow  to  meet  my  niece. 
No  offence,  sir,  no  offence !  Come,  come  !  Business, 
you  know,  business ! 

Don  Jose  \relaxing\.  Be  it  so  !  I  will  come.  [Aside."] 
These  Americanos,  these  Americanos  are  of  the  devil ! 
[Aloud."]  Adios.  [Going.']  I  hear,  by  report,  that  you 
have  met  with  the  misfortune  of  a  serious  loss  by  robbery. 

Old  Morton  [aside].  So  our  mishap  is  known  every 
where  !  \AloudI\  No  serious  misfortune,  Mr.  Castro, 
even  if  we  do  not  recover  the  money.  Adios.  [Exit 
DON  Jos£] 

Old  Morton.  The  stiff-necked  Papist  !  That  he  should 
dare,  for  the  sake  of  his  black-browed,  froward  daughter, 
to  question  the  faith  on  which  I  have  pinned  my  future  ! 
Well,  with  God's  blessing,  I  gave  him  some  wholesome 
discipline.  If  it  were  not  for  my  covenant  with  Alexander, 
— and  nobly  he  has  fulfilled  his  part, — I  should  forbid  his 
alliance  with  the  blood  of  this  spying  Jesuit. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  377 


Enter  MR.  JACKSON,  leading  in  CAPPER. 

Jackson.     Policeman,  sir.  [Exit. 

Capper  [turning  sharply].     Who's  that  man  ? 

Old  Morton.     Jackson,  clerk. 

Capper.     Umph  !     Been  here  long  ? 

Old  Morton.     A  year.     He  was  appointed  by  my  son. 

Capper.     Know  anything  of  his  previous  life  ? 

Old  Morton  [stiffly].  I  have  already  told  you  he  is  an 
appointee  of  my  son's. 

Capper.  Yes  !  [Aside.]  "  Like  master,  like  man." 
[Aloud.~]  Well,  to  business.  We  have  worked  up  the  rob 
bery.  We  have  reached  two  conclusions, — one,  that  the 
work  was  not  done  by  professionals  ;  the  other,  consequent 
upon  this,  that  you  can't  recover  the  money. 

Old  Morton.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  do  not  see  the  last 
conclusion. 

Capper.  Then  listen.  The  professional  thief  has  only 
one  or  two  ways  of  disposing  of  his  plunder,  and  these  ways 
are  always  well  known  to  us.  Good  !  Your  stolen  coin 
has  not  been  disposed  of  in  the  regular  way,  through  the 
usual  hands  which  we  could  at  any  time  seize.  Of  this  we 
are  satisfied. 

Old  Morton.     How  do  you  know  it  ? 

Capper.  In  this  way.  The  only  clue  we  have  to  the 
identification  of  the  missing  money  were  two  boxes  of 
Mexican  doubloons. 

Old  Morton  [aside].  Mr.  Castro's  special  deposit !  He 
may  have  reason  for  his  interest.  [Aloud.']  Go  on. 

Capper.  It  is  a  coin  rare  in  circulation  in  the  interior. 
The  night  after  the  robbery,  the  dealer  of  a  monte-table  in 
Sacramento  paid  out  five  thousand  dollars  in  doubloons. 
He  declared  it  was  taLen  in  at  the  table,  and  could  not 


378  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

identify  the  players.  Of  course,  of  course  !  So  far,  you 
see,  you  are  helpless.  We  have  only  established  one  fact, — 
that  the  robber  is — is  [significantly]  a  gambler. 

Old  Morton  [quietly].  The  regular  trade  of  the  thief 
seems  to  me  to  be  of  little  importance  if  you  cannot  identify 
him  or  recover  my  money.  But  go  on,  sir,  go  on  :  or  is 
this  all  ? 

Capper  \aside\.  The  old  fool  is  blind.  That  is  natural. 
[Aloud.]  It  is  not  all.  The  crime  will  doubtless  be  re 
peated.  The  man  who  has  access  to  your  vaults,  who  has 
taken  only  thirty  thousand  dollars  when  he  could  have 
secured  half  a  million, — this  man,  who  has  already  gambled 
that  thirty  thousand  away, — will  not  stop  there.  He  will 
in  a  day  or  two,  perhaps  to-day,  try  to  retrieve  his  losses 
out  of  your  capital.  /  am  here  to  prevent  it. 

Old  Morton  [becoming  interested].     How  ? 

Capper.  Give  me,  for  forty-eight  hours,  free  access  to 
this  building.  Let  me  conceal  myself  somewhere,  anywhere 
within  these  walls.  Let  it  be  without  the  knowledge  of 
your  clerks,  even  of  your  son  ! 

Old  Morton  {proudly}.  Mr.  Alexander  Morton  is  absent 
to-day.  There  is  no  other  reason  why  he  should  not  be 
here  to  consent  to  the  acts  of  his  partner  and  father. 

Capper  [quickly].  Very  good.  It  is  only  to  ensure  ab 
solute  secrecy. 

Old  Morton  [aside].     Another   robbery  might   excite   a 

suspicion  worse  for  our  credit  than  our  actual  loss.     There 

is  a  significant  earnestness  about  this  man  that  awakens 

my  fears.    If  Alexander  were  only  here !    [Aloud.  ]    I  accept. 

[CAPPER  has  been  trying  doors  R.  and  L. 

Capper.     What  room  is  this  ?     [At  R.] 

Old  Morton.     My  son's.    I  would  prefer — 

Capper.     And  this  ?     [At  L.] 

Old  Morton.     Mine,  sir ;  if  you  choose — 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  379 

Capper  \locking  door  and  putting  key  in  his  pocket\.  This 
will  do.  Oblige  me  by  making  the  necessary  arrangements 
in  your  counting-room. 

Old  Morton  \_hesitating  and  aside\.  He  is  right :  perhaps 
it  is  only  prudence,  and  I  .am  saving  Alexander  additional 
care  and  annoyance.  \Exit. 

Enter  MR.  SHADOW  cautiously,  c. 

Shadow  [in  a  lisping  whisper  to  CAPPER.]  I've  got  the 
litht  of  the  clerkth  complete. 

Capper  \triumphantly\.  Put  it  in  your  pocket,  Shadow. 
We  don't  care  for  the  lackeys  now :  we  are  after  the 
master. 

Shadow.     Eh  !  the  mathter  ? 

Capper.  Yes,  the  master, — the  young  master,  the 
reclaimed  son,  the  reformed  prodigal  !  ha,  ha  ! — the  young 
man  who  compensates  himself  for  all  his  austere  devotion 
to  business  and  principle  by  dipping  into  the  old  man's 
vaults  when  he  wants  a  pasear — eh,  Shadow  ?  That's  the 
man  we're  after.  Look  here  !  /  never  took  any  stock  in 
that  young  man's  reformation.  Ye  don't  teach  old  sports 
like  him  new  tricks.  They're  a  bad  lot,  father  and  son, — 
eh,  Shadow  ? — and  he's  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  I  spotted 
him  before  this  robbery,  before  we  were  ever  called  in  here 
professionally.  I've  had  my  eye  on  Alexander  Morton, 
alias  John  Oakhurst;  and,  when  I  found  the  old  man's 
doubloons  raked  over  a  monte-table  at  Sacramento,  I  knew 
where  to  look  for  the  thief.  Eh,  Shadow  ? 

Shadow  \aside\.    He  ith  enormouth,  thith  Mithter  Capper. 

Enter  OLD  MORTON. 
Old  Morton      I   have  arranged   everything.     You   will 


380  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

not  be  disturbed  or  suspected  here  in  my  private  office; 
Eh  !     [Looking at  SHADOW.]     Who  has  slipped  in  here? 

Capper.  Only  my  shadow,  Mr.  Morton ;  but  I  can  rid 
myself  even  of  that.  [Crosses  to  SHADOW.]  Take  this  card 
to  the  office,  and  wait  for  further  orders.  Vanish,  Shadow  ! 

[Exit  SHADOW. 

Enter  JACKSON. 

Jackson.  Mr.  Alexander  has  come  in,  sir.  [OLD  MORTON 
and  CAPPER  start, .] 

Old  Morton.     Where  is  he  ? 
Jackson.     In  his  private  room,  sir. 

Old  Morton.     Enough ;  you  can  go.          [Exit  JACKSON. 

Capper  [crossing  to  MORTON].  Remember,  you  have  given 
your  pledge  of  secrecy.  Beware  !  Your  honour,  your 
property,  the  credit  and  reputation  of  your  bank,  are  at 
stake. 

Old  Morton  [offer  a  pause  of  hesitation,  with  dignity\. 
I  gave  you  my  word,  sir,  while  my  son  was  not  present.  I 
shall  save  myself  from  breaking  my  word  with  you  or  con 
cealing  anything  from  him,  by  withdrawing  myself.  For 
the  next  twenty-four  hours,  this  room  [pointing  to  private 
room  R.]  is  yours. 

[Each  regards  the  other.  Exit  OLD  MORTON  c.,  as 
CAPPER  exit  in  private  room  R.  After  a  pause, 
door  of  room  opens,  and  HARRY  YORK  appears, 
slightly  intoxicated,  followed  by  JOHN  OAKHURST. 

Harry  York  [looking  around\  By  Jove !  Morton,  but 
you've  got  things  in  style  here.  And  this  'yer's  the  gov'nor's 
desk ;  and  here  old  Praise-God  Barebones  sits  opposite  ye. 
Look  'yer,  old  boy  [throwing  himself  in  chair~\,  I  kin  allow 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  381 

how  it  comes  easy  for  ye  to  run  this  bank,  for  it's  about  as 
exciting,  these  times,  as  faro  was  to  ye  in  '49,  when  I  first 
knew  ye  as  Jack  Oakhurst ;  but  how  the  devil  you  can  sit 
opposite  that  stiff  embodiment  of  all  the  Ten  Commandments 
day  by  day,  damn  it  !  that's  wot  gets  me  !  Why,  the  first 
day  I  came  here  on  business,  the  old  man  froze  me  so  that 
I  couldn't  thaw  a  deposit  out  of  my  pocket.  It  chills  me 
to  think  of  it. 

Oakhurst  [hastily].  I  suppose  I  am  accustomed  to  him. 
But  come,  Harry,  let  me  warm  you.  [Opens  door  of  safe  L. 
and  discovers  cupboard,  decanter,  and  glasses."] 

York  [laughing].  By  Jove  !  under  the  old  man's  very 
nose.  Jack,  this  is  like  you.  [Takes  a  drink.]  Well,  old 
boy,  this  is  like  old  times.  But  you  don't  drink. 

Oakhurst.  No,  nor  smoke.  The  fact  is,  Harry,  Fve 
taken  a  year's  pledge.  I've  six  days  still  to  run  ;  after  that 
[gloomily],  why  [with  a  reckless  laugti],  I  shall  be  Jack 
Oakhurst  again. 

York.  Lord  !  to  think  of  your  turning  out  to  be  anybody's 
son,  Jack  ! — least  of  all,  his  !  [Pointing  to  chair. ~\ 

Oakhurst  [laughing  recklessly].  Not  more  strange  than 
that  I  should  find  Harry  York,  the  spendthrift  of  Poker 
Flat,  the  rich  and  respected  Mr.  York,  produce  merchant  of 
San  Francisco. 

York.  Yes ;  but,  my  boy,  you  see  I  didn't  strike  it — in 
a  rich  father.  I  gave  up  gambling,  married,  and  settled 
down,  saved  my  money,  invested  a  little  here  and  there, 
and  worked  for  it,  Jack,  damn  me, — worked  for  it  like  a 
damned  horse ! 

Oakhurst  [aside].     True,  this  is  not  work. 

York.  But  that  ain't  my  business  with  ye  now,  old  boy ; 
it's  this.  You've  had  some  trials  and  troubles  in  the  bank 
lately, — a  defalcation  of  agents  one  day,  a  robbery  next. 
It's  luck,  my  boy,  luck  !  but  ye  know  people  will  talk.  You 


382  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

don't  mind  my  sayin'  that  there's  rumours  'round.  The  old 
man's  mighty  unpopular  because  he's  a  saint ;  and  folks 
don't  entirely  fancy  you  because  you  used  to  be  the  reverse. 
Well,  Jack,  it  amounts  to  'bout  this  :  I've  withdrawn  my 
account  from  Parkinson's  in  Sacramento,  and  I've  got  a 
pretty  heavy  balance  on  hand — nigh  on  two  hundred 
thousand — in  bonds  and  certificates  here  ;  and  if  it  will 
help  you  over  the  rough  places,  old  boy,  as  a  deposit,  'yer  it 
is  [drawing  pocket-book] 

Oakhurst  [greatly  affected,  but  endeavouring  to  conceal  it]. 
Thank  you,  Harry,  old  fellow,  but — 

York  [quickly].  I  know;  I'll  take  the  risk,  a  business 
risk.  You'll  stand  by  me  all  you  can,  old  boy ;  you'll  make 
it  pay  all  you  can ;  and  if  you  lose  it — why — all  right ! 

Oakhurst  [embarrassed].  As  a  deposit  with  Morton  & 
Son,  drawing  two  per  cent,  monthly  interest — 

York.  Damn  Morton  &  Son  !  I'll  back  it  with  Jack 
Oakhurst,  the  man  I  know. 

Oakhurst  [advancing  slowly}.      I'll  take  it,  Harry. 

York  [extending  his  hand].     It's  a  square  game,  Jack  ! 

Oakhurst  [seizing  his  hand  with  repressed  emotion].  It's 
a  square  game,  Harry  York,  if  I  live. 

York.  Then  I'll  travel.  Good-night,  old  boy.  I'll  send 
my  clerk  around  in  the  morning  to  put  things  right.  Good 
night  [going]. 

Oakhurst  [grasping  YORK'S  hand].  One  moment — no — 
nothing  !  Good-night.  [Exit  YORK. 

[OAKHURST  follows  him  to  door,  and  then  returns 
to  desk,  throwing  himself  in  chair,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

Oakhurst  [with  deep  feeling\.  It  needed  but  this  to  fill 
the  measure  of  my  degradation.  I  have  borne  the  sus- 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  383 

picions  of  the  old  man's  enemies,  the  half-pitying,  half-con 
temptuous  sympathy  of  his  friends,  even  his  own  cold, 
heartless,  fanatical  fulfilment  of  his  sense  of  duty ;  but  this 
— this  confidence  from  one  who  had  most  reason  to  scorn 
me,  this  trust  from  one  who  knew  me  as  I  was, — this  is  the 
hardest  burden.  And  he  too  in  time  will  know  me  to  be 
an  impostor.  He  too — a  reformed  man ;  but  he  has 
honourably  retraced  his  steps,  and  won  the  position  I  hold 
by  a  trick,  an  imposture.  And  what  is  all  my  labour  beside 
his  honest  sincerity  ?  I  have  fought  against  the  chances 
that  might  discover  my  deception,  against  the  enemies 
who  would  overthrow  me,  against  the  fate  that  put  me 
here ;  and  I  have  been  successful — yes,  a  successful  im 
postor  !  I  have  even  fought  against  the  human  instinct 
that  told  this  fierce,  foolish  old  man  that  /was  an  alien  to 
his  house,  to  his  blood;  I  have  even  felt  him  scan  my 
face  eagerly  for  some  reflection  of  his  long-lost  boy,  for 
some  realisation  for  his  dream ;  and  I  have  seen  him  turn 
away,  cold,  heartsick,  and  despairing.  What  matters  that 
I  have  been  to  him  devoted,  untiring,  submissive,  ay !  a 
better  son  to  him  than  his  own  weak  flesh  and  blood  would 
have  been  ?  He  would  to-morrow  cast  me  forth  to  welcome 
the  outcast,  Sandy  Morton.  Well,  what  matters?  [.Reck- 
lesslyJ]  Nothing.  In  six  days  it  will  be  over ;  in  six  days 
the  year  of  my  probation  will  have  passed ;  in  six  days  I 
will  disclose  to  him  the  deceit  I  have  practised,  and  will 
face  the  world  again  as  John  Oakhurst  the  gambler,  who 
staked  and  lost  all  on  a  single  cast.  And  Jovita !  Well, 
well ! — the  game  is  made ;  it  is  too  late  to  draw  out  now. 
[Rings  bell.  Enter  JACKSON.]  Who  has  been  here  ? 

Jackson.     Only  Don  Jose  and  Mr.  Capper  the  detective. 

Oakhurst.     The  detective  ?    What  for  ? 

Jackson.     To  work  up  the  robbery,  sir. 

Oakhurst.     True!     Capper,   Capper,   yes!    A  man  of 


384  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

wild  and  ridiculous  theories,  but  well-meaning,  brave,  and 
honest.  [Aside.]  This  is  the  old  man's  idea.  He  does 
not  know  that  I  was  on  the  trail  of  the  thieves  an  hour 
before  the  police  were  notified.  [AloudJ]  Well,  sir? 

Jackson.  He  told  your  father  he  thought  the  recovery  of 
the  money  hopeless,  but  he  came  to  caution  us  against  a 
second  attempt 

Oakhurst  [aside,  starting.  True  !  I  had  not  thought  of 
that.  [Excitedly. ~]  The  success  of  their  first  attempt  will 
incite  them  to  another ;  the  money  they  have  stolen  is  gone 
by  this  time.  [Aloud.]  Jackson,  I  will  stay  here  to-night 
and  to-morrow  night,  and  relieve  your  regular  watchman. 
You  will,  of  course,  say  nothing  of  my  intention. 

Jackson.     Yes,  sir.     [Lingering] 

Oakhurst  [after  a  pause].     That  is  all,  Mr.  Jackson. 

Jackson.  Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Morton ;  but  Col.  Star- 
bottle,  with  two  ladies,  was  here  half  an  hour  ago,  and  said 
they  would  come  again  when  you  were  alone. 

Oakhurst.     Very  well :  admit  them. 

Jackson.  Beg  pardon,  sir  ;  but  they  seemed  to  avoid 
seeing  your  father  until  they  had  seen  you.  It  looked 
mysterious,  and  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  first. 

Oakhurst  [laughing].  Admit  them,  Mr.  Jackson.  [Exit 
JACKSON.]  This  poor  fellow's  devotion  is  increasing.  He 
too  believes  that  his  old  associate  in  dissipation,  John  Oak 
hurst,  is  the  son  of  Alexander  Morton.  He  too  will  have 
to  share  in  the  disgrace  of  the  impostor.  Ladies  !  umph ! 
[Looking  down  at  his  clothes]  I'm  afraid  the  reform  of 
Alexander  Morton  hasn't  improved  the  usual  neatness  of 
John  Oakhurst.  I  haven't  slept  nor  changed  my  clothes 
for  three  days.  [Goes  to  door  of  MORTON,  sen.'s,  room.'] 
Locked,  and  the  key  on  the  inside !  That's  strange.  Non 
sense  !  the  old  man  has  locked  his  door,  and  gone  out  through 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  385 

the  private  entrance.     Well,  I'll  find  means  of  making  my 
toilet  here.  \Exit  into  private  room  L. 

Enter  JACKSON,  leading  in  COL.  STARBOTTLE,  Miss  MARY, 
the  DUCHESS,  and  child  of  three  years. 

Jackson.     Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  jim.,  is  in  his  private 
oom.     He  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  \Exit  JACKSON. 

Starbottle.  One  moment,  a  single  moment,  Miss  Mary. 
Permit  me  to — er — if  I  may  so  express  myself,  to — er — 
group  the  party,  to — er — place  the — er — present  company 
into  position.  I  have — er — observed,  as  part  of  my — er 
— legal  experience,  that  in  cases  of  moral  illustration  a  great, 
I  may  say — er — tremendous,  effect  on  the — er — jury,  I  mean 
the — er — guilty  party,  has  been  produced  by  the  attitude  of 
the — er — victim  and  martyr.  You,  madam,  as  the — er — 
injured  wife  {placing  her\,  shall  stand  here,  firm  yet  expect 
ant,  protecting  your  child,  yet  looking  hopefully  for  assist 
ance  toward  its  natural  protector.  You,  Miss  Mary,  shall 
stand  here  {placing  her\,  as  Moral  Retribution,  leaning 
toward  and  appealing  to  me,  the  image  of — er — er — Inflex 
ible  Justice  !  \Inflates  his  chest,  puts  his  hand  in  his  bosom, 
and  strikes  an  attitude^ 

\Door  of  young  MORTON'S  room  opens,  and  discloses 
MR.  OAKHURST  gazing  at  the  group.  He  starts 
slightly  on  observing  the  DUCHESS,  but  instantly 
recovers  himself,  and  faces  the  company  coldly. 
The  DUCHESS  starts  on  observing  OAKHURST, 
and  struggles  in  confusion  towards  the  door, 
dragging  with  her  the  child  and  Miss  MARY, 
who  endeavours  to  reassure  her.  COL.  STAR- 
BOTTLE  looks  in  astonishment  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  advances  to  front. 
Col.  Starbottle  \aside\.  The  —  er  —  tableau,  although 

VOL.  I.  2  B 


386  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

striking  in  moral  force,  is  apparently — er — deficient  in 
moral  stamina. 

Miss  Mary  [angrily  to  the  DUCHESS].  I'm  ashamed  of 
you  !  \To  OAKHURST,  advancing.}  I  don't  ask  pardon  for 
my  intrusion.  If  you  are  Alexander  Morton,  you  are  my 
kinsman,  and  you  will  know  that  I  cannot  introduce  myself 
better  than  as  the  protector  of  an  injured  woman.  Come 
here  !  \To  the  DUCHESS,  dragging  her  towards  OAKHURST. 
To  OAKHURST.]  Look  upon  this  woman  :  she  claims  to 
be— 

Starbottle  \stepping  between  Miss  MARY  and  the  DUCHESS], 
A  moment,  Miss  Mary,  a  single  moment !  Permit  me 
to — er — explain.  The  whole  thing,  the — er — situation 
reminds  me,  demn  me,  of  most  amusing  incident  at 
Sacramento  in  '52.  Large  party  at  Hank  Suedecois : 
know  Hank?  Confirmed  old  bach  of  sixty.  Dinner  for 
forty.  Everything  in  style,  first  families,  Ged, — Judge 
Beeswinger,  Mat  Boompointer,  and  Maje  Blodgett  of  Ahla- 
bam  :  know  old  Maje  Blodgett?  Well,  Maje  was  there. 
Ged,  sir,  delay, — everybody  waiting.  I  went  to  Hank. 
"Hank,"  I  says,  " what's  matter?  why  delay?"  "Star," 
he  says, — always  called  me  Star, — "Star, — it's  cook!" 
"Demn  cook,"  I  says:  "discharge  cook, — only  a  black 
mulatto  any  way  !"  "Can't,  Star,"  he  says  :  "impossible  !  " 
"  Can't?  "  says  I.  "  No,"  says  he.  "  Listen,  Star,"  he  says, 
"  family  secret !  Honour  !  Can't  discharge  cook,  because 
cook — demn  it — 's  my  wife!"  Fact,  sir,  fact — showed 
marriage  certificate — married  privately  seven  years  !  Fact, 
sir — 

The  Duchess  \to  Miss  MARY].  Some  other  time,  miss. 
Let  us  go  now.  There's  a  mistake,  miss,  I  can't  explain. 
Some  other  time,  miss  !  See,  miss,  how  cold  and  stern  he 
looks  !  another  time,  miss  !  {Struggling}  For  God's  sake, 
miss,  let  me  go  ! 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  387 

Miss  Mary.  No !  This  mystery  must  be  cleared  up 
now,  before  I  enter  his  house, — before  I  accept  the  charge 
of  this — 

Starbottle  [interrupting,  and  crossing  before  Miss  MARY]. 
A  moment — a  single  moment,  miss.  [To  OAKHURST.] 
Mr.  Morton,  you  will  pardon  the  exuberance,  and  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  somewhat  natural  impulsiveness, 
of  the — er — sex,  for  which  I  am  perhaps  responsible;  I 
may  say — er — personally,  sir, — personally  responsible — 

Oakhurst  [coldly].     Go  on,  sir. 

Starbottle.  The  lady  on  my  right  is — er — the  niece  of 
your  father, — your  cousin.  The  lady  on  my  left,  engaged 
in  soothing  the — er — bashful  timidity  of  infancy,  is — er — that 
is — er — claims  to  be,  the  mother  of  the  child  of  Alexander 
Morton. 

Oakhurst  [calmly].     She  is  right. 

Miss  Mary  [rushing  forward].     Then  you  are — 

Oakhurst  [gently  restraining  her].  You  have  another 
question  to  ask  :  you  hesitate  :  let  me  ask  it.  [Crossing  to 
the  DUCHESS.]  You  have  heard  my  answer.  Madam,  are 
you  the  legal  wife  of  Alexander  Morton  ? 

The  Duchess  [sinking  upon  her  knees  and  dropping  her  face 
in  her  hands'].  No  ! 

Oakhurst.  Enough  !  I  will  take  the  child.  Pardon  me, 
Miss  Morris,  but  you  have  heard  enough  to  know  that  your 
mission  is  accomplished,  but  that  what  else  passes  between 
this  woman  and  myself  becomes  no  stranger  to  hear. 
[Motions  toward  room  L.] 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  It  is  his  son.  I  am  satisfied  [going]. 
Come,  Colonel.  [Exeunt  into  room  L.,  STARBOTTLE  and 
Miss  MARY.] 

The  Duchess  [crossing  to  OAKHURST  and  falling  at  his 
feet].  Forgive  me,  Jack,  forgive  me !  It  was  no  fault  of 


388  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

mine.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here.  I  did  not 
know  that  you  had  taken  his  name  ! 

Oakhurst.     Hush — on  your  life  ! 

The  Duchess.  Hear  me,  Jack  !  I  was  anxious  only  for 
a  home  for  my  child.  I  came  to  her — the  schoolmistress 
of  Red  Gulch — for  aid.  I  told  her  the  name  of  my  boy's 
father.  She — she  brought  me  here.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Jack  ! 
I  have  offended  you  ! 

Oakhurst.  How  can  I  believe  you  ?  You  have  deceived 
him.  You  have  deceived  me.  Listen !  When  I  said,  a 
moment  ago,  you  were  not  the  wife  of  Alexander  Morton, 
it  was  because  I  knew  that  your  first  husband — the  Austra 
lian  convict  Pritchard — was  still  living;  that  you  had 
deceived  Sandy  Morton  as  you  had  deceived  me.  That 
was  why  I  left  you.  Tell  me,  have  you  deceived  me  also 
about  him,  as  you  did  about  the  other  ?  Is  he  living,  and 
with  you ;  or  dead,  as  you  declared  ? 

The  Duchess  [aside}.  He  will  kill  me  if  I  tell  him. 
[Aloud.]  No,  no  !  He  is  gone — is  dead  these  three  years. 

Oakhurst.     You  swear? 

The  Duchess  \Jiesitates,  gasps,  and  looks  around  for  her 
child ;  then  seizing  it,  and  drawing  it  towards  her\.  I 
swear  ! 

Oakhurst.  Enough  !  Seek  not  to  know  why  /  am  here, 
and  under  his  name.  Enough  for  you  that  it  has  saved 
your  child's  future,  and  secured  him  his  heritage  past  all 
revocation.  Yet  remember  !  a  word  from  you  within  the 
next  few  days  destroys  it  all.  After  that,  I  care  not  what 
you  say. 

The  Duchess.  Jack !  One  word,  Jack,  before  I  go.  I 
never  thought  to  bring  my  shame  to  you  ! — to  him  ! 

Oakhurst.  It  was  no  trick,  then,  no  contrivance,  that 
brought  her  here.  No  :  it  was  fate.  And  at  least  I  shall 
save  his  child. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  389 

Re-enter  STARBOTTLE,  Miss  MARY,  and  DUCHESS. 

Col.  Star  bottle  [impressively].  Permit  me,  Mr.  Alexander 
Morton,  as  the  friend  of  my — er — principal,  to  declare  that 
we  have  received — honourable — honourable — satisfaction. 
Allow  me,  sir,  to  grasp  the  hand,  the — er — cherished  hand 
of  a  gentleman,  who,  demn  me !  has  fulfilled  all  his  duties 
to — er — society  and  gentlemen.  And  allow  me  to  add,  sir, 
should  any  invidious  criticism  of  the  present — er — settle 
ment  be  uttered  in  my  presence,  I  shall  hold  that  critic 
responsible,  sir — er — personally  responsible  ! 

Miss  Mary  [sweeping  truculently  and  aggressively  up  to 
JOHN  OAKHURST].  And  permit  me  to  add,  sir,  that,  if  you 
can  see  your  way  clearly  out  of  this  wretched  muddle,  it's 
more  than  I  can.  This  arrangement  may  be  according  to 
the  Californian  code  of  morality,  but  it  doesn't  accord  with 
my  Eastern  ideas  of  right  and  wrong.  If  this  foolish, 
wretched  creature  chooses  to  abandon  all  claim  upon  you, 
chooses  to  run  away  from  you, — why,  I  suppose,  as  a  gentle 
man,  according  to  your  laws  of  honour,  you  are  absolved. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Alexander  Morton. 

\Goes  to  door  c.,  and  exit, pushing  out  STARBOTTLE, 
the  DUCHESS,  and  child.  MR.  OAKHURST  sinks 
into  chair  at  desk,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Re-enter,  slowly  and  embarrassedly,  Miss  MARY  : 
looks  toward  OAKHURST,  and  comes  slowly  down 


j  Miss  Mary  [aside"].  I  was  too  hard  on  him.  I  was  not 
so  hard  on  Sandy  when  I  thought  that  he — he — was  the 
father  of  her  child.  And  he's  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  too  ; 
and — he's  crying.  [Aloud J]  Mr.  Morton. 

Oakhurst  [slowly  lifting  his  head].     Yes,  Miss  Mary. 
Miss  Mary.     I  spoke  hastily  just  then.     I — I — thought 
— you  see — I — [angrily  and  passionately] — I  mean  this.    I'm 


3  go  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

a  stranger.  I  don't  understand  your  Californian  ways,  and 
I  don't  want  to.  But  I  believe  you've  done  what  you 
thought  was  right,  according  to  a  man's  idea  of  right ;  and 
— there's  my  hand.  Take  it,  take  it ;  for  it's  a  novelty,  Mr. 
Morton  :  it's  the  hand  of  an  honest  girl ! 

Oakhurst  \hesitates,  then  rises^  sinks  on  one  knee,  and 
raises  Miss  MARY'S  fingers  to  his  lips~\.  God  bless  you, 
miss  !  God  bless  you  ! 

Miss  Mary  [retreating  to  centre  door].  Good-night,  good 
night  [slowly], — cousin — Alexander. 

\Exit.     Dark  stage. 

Oakhurst  [rising  swiftly].  No,  no :  it  is  false  !  Ah ! 
She's  gone.  Another  moment,  and  I  would  have  told  her 
all.  Pshaw  !  courage,  man  !  It  is  only  six  days  more,  and 
you  are  free,  and  this  year's  shame  and  agony  forever 
ended. 

Enter  JACKSON. 

Jackson.  As  you  ordered,  sir,  the  night  watchman  has 
been  relieved,  and  has  just  gone. 

Oakhurst     Very  good,  sir ;  and  you  ? 

Jackson.  I  relieved  the  porter,  sir ;  and  I  shall  bunk  on 
two  chairs  in  the  counting-room.  You'll  find  me  handy,  if 
you  want  me,  sir.  Good-night,  sir.  \Exit  c. 

Oakhurst.  I  fear  these  rascals  will  not  dare  to  make 
their  second  attempt  to  night.  A  quiet  scrimmage  with 
them,  enough  to  keep  me  awake  or  from  thinking,  would 
be  a  good  fortune.  No,  no  !  no  such  luck  for  you  to-night, 
John  Oakhurst !  You  are  playing  a  losing  game.  .  .  .  Yet 
the  robbery  was  a  bold  one.  At  eleven  o'clock,  while  the 
bank  was  yet  lighted,  and  Mr.  Jackson  and  another  clerk 
were  at  work  here,  three  well-dressed  men  pick  the  lock  of 
the  counting-house  door,  enter,  and  turn  the  key  on  the 
clerks  in  this  parlour,  and  carry  away  a  box  of  doubloons 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  391 

not  yet  placed  in  the  vaults  by  the  porter ;  and  all  this  done 
so  cautiously  that  the  clerks  within  knew  nothing  of  it  until 
notified  of  the  open  street-door  by  the  private  watchman, 
and  so  boldly  that  the  watchman,  seeing  them  here,  believed 
them  clerks  of  the  bank,  and  let  them  go  unmolested.  No  : 
this  was  the  coincidence  of  good  luck,  not  of  bold  premedi 
tation.  There  will  be  no  second  attempt.  [  Yawns '.]  If 
they  don't  come  soon  I  shall  fall  asleep.  Four  nights  with 
out  rest  will  tell  on  a  man,  unless  he  has  some  excitement 
to  back  him.  [Nods.}  Hallo  !  What  was  that  ?  Oh ! 
Jackson  in  the  counting-room  getting  to  bed.  I'll  look  at 
that  front  door  myself. 

[Takes  revolver  from  desk  and  goes  to  door  c.,  tries 

lock,  comes  down  stage  with  revolver,  examines  it, 

and  lays  it  down. 

Oakhurst  [slowly  and  quietly\.  The  door  is  locked  on  the 
outside :  that  may  have  been  an  accident.  The  caps  are 
taken  from  my  pistol :  that  was  not  !  Well,  here  is  the 
vault,  and  here  is  John  Oakhurst :  to  reach  the  one  they 
must  pass  the  other.  [Takes  off  his  coat,  seizes  poker  from 
grate,  and  approaches  safe.]  Ha  !  some  one  is  moving  in 
the  old  man's  room.  [Approaches  door  of  room  R.  as — 

Enter  noiselessly  and  cautiously  from  room  L.,  PRITCHARD, 
SILKY,  and  SOAPY.  PRITCHARD  and  his  confederates 
approach  OAKHURST  from  behind,  carrying  lariat,  or  slip- 
noose. 

Oakhurst  [listening  at  door  R.].  Good  !  At  least  I  know 
from  what  quarter  to  expect  the  attack.  Ah  ! 

[PRITCHARD  throws  slip-noose  over  OAKHURST  from 
behind ;  OAKHURST  puts  his  hand  in  his  breast 
as  the  slip-noose  is  drawn  across  his  bosom, 
pinioning  one  arm  over  his  breast,  and  the  other 


392  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

at  his  side.  SILKY  and  SOAPY,  directed  by 
PRITCHARD,  drag  OAKHURST  to  chair  front,  and 
pinion  his  legs.  PRITCHARD  c.,  regarding  him. 

Oakhurst  [very  coolly].  You  have  left  me  my  voice,  I 
suppose,  because  it  is  useless. 

Pritchard.     That's  so,  pard.     Twon't  be  no  help  to  ye. 

Oakhurst.     Then  you  have  killed  Jackson. 

Pritchard.  Lord  love  ye,  no  !  That  ain't  like  us,  pard  ! 
Jackson's  tendin'  door  for  us,  and  kinder  lookin'  out 
gin'rally  for  the  boys.  Thar's  nothin'  mean  about  Jackson. 

Soapy.     No  !     Jackson's  a  square  man.     Eh,  Silky  ? 

Silky.     Ez  white  a  man  ez  ther  is,  pard  ! 

Oakhurst  [aside].     The  traitor  !     [Aloud.]     Well ! 

Pritchard.  Well,  you  want  ter  know  our  business.  Call 
upon  a  business  man  in  business  hours.  Our  little  game  is 
this,  Mr.  Jack  Morton  Alexander  Oakhurst.  When  we  was 
here  the  other  night,  we  was  wantin'  a  key  to  that  theer 
lock  [pointing  to  vault\  and  we  sorter  dropped  in  passin'  to 
get  it. 

Oakhurst.     And  suppose  I  refuse  to  give  it  up? 

Pritchard.  We  were  kalkilatin'  on  yer  being  even  that 
impolite  :  wasn't  we,  boys  ? 

Silky  and  Soapy.     We  was  that. 

Pritchard.  And  so  we  got  Mr.  Jackson  to  take  an 
impression  of  it  in  wax.  Oh,  he's  a  square  man,  is  Mr. 
Jackson ! 

Silky.     Jackson  is  a  white  man,  Soapy. 

Soapy.  They  don't  make  no  better  men  nor  Jackson, 
Silky. 

Pritchard.  And  we've  got  a  duplicate  key  here.  But 
we  don't  want  any  differences,  pard :  we  only  want  a  square 
game.  It  seemed  to  us — some  of  yer  old  pards  as  knew 
ye,  Jack — that  ye  had  a  rather  soft  thing  here  reformin' ; 
and  we  thought  ye  was  kinder  throwin'  off  on  the  boys,  not 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  393 

givin'  'em  any  hand  in  the  game.  But  thar  ain't  anythin1 
mean  about  us.  Eh,  boys? 

Soapy.  We  is  allers  ready  to  chip  in  ekal  in  the  game. 
Eh,  Silky? 

Silky.     That's  me,  Soapy. 

Pritchard.  Ye  see,  the  boys  is  free  and  open-handed, 
Jack.  And  so  the  proposition  we  wanter  make  to  ye,  Jack, 
is  this.  It's  reg'lar  on  the  square.  We  reckon,  takin'  Mr. 
Jackson's  word, — and  thar  ain't  no  man's  word  ez  is  better 
nor  Jackson's — that  there's  nigh  onto  two  millions  in  that 
vault,  not  to  speak  of  a  little  speshil  de-posit  o'  York's,  ez 
we  learn  from  that  accomodatin'  friend  Mr.  Jackson.  We 
propose  to  share  it  with  ye,  on  ekal  terms — us  five — countin' 
Jackson,  a  square  man.  In  course,  we  takes  the  risk  o' 
packin'  it  away  to-night  comfortable.  Ez  your  friends,  Jack, 
we  allow  this  'yer  little  arrangement  to  be  a  deuced  sight 
easier  for  you  than  playin'  Sandy  Morton  on  a  riglar  salary, 
with  the  chance  o'  the  real  Sandy  poppin'  in  upon  ye  any 
night. 

Oakhurst.     It's  a  lie.     Sandy  is  dead. 

Pritchard.  In  course,  in  course  !  that  is  your  little  game  ! 
But  we  kalkilated,  Jack,  even  on  that,  on  yer  bein'  ram- 
buriktious  and  contrary ;  and  so  we  went  ter  Red  Gulch, 
and  found  Sandy.  Ye  know  I  take  a  kind  o'  interest  in 
Sandy :  he's  the  second  husband  of  my  wife,  the  woman 
you  run  away  with,  pard.  But  thar's  nothin'  mean  about 
me  !  eh,  boys  ? 

Silky.  No !  he's  the  forgivingest  kind  of  a  man,  is 
Pritchard. 

Soapy.     That's  so,  Silky. 

Pritchard.  And,  thinkin'  ye  might  be  dubious,  we  filled 
Sandy  about  full  o'  rye-whisky,  and  brought  him  along; 
and  one  of  our  pards  is  preambulatin'  the  streets  with  him, 
ready  to  bring  him  on  call. 


394  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Oakhurst.     It's  a  lie,  Pritchard, — a  cowardly  lie  ! 
Pritchard.     Is  it  ?     Hush  ! 
Sandy  [without 9  singing\. 

Oh,  'yer's  yer  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 
Oh,  'yer's  yer  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 
Oh,  'yer's  yer  Sandy  Morton, 

All  alive  and  just  a-snortin  ! 
Oh,  'yer's  yer  Sandy  Morton, 

Drink  him  down  ! 

Pritchard.  We  don't  propose  to  run  him  in  'yer,  'cept 
we're  took,  or  yer  unaccomodatin'  to  the  boys. 

Oakhurst.     And  if  I  refuse  ? 

Pritchard.  Why,  we'll  take  what  we  can  get ;  and  we'll 
leave  Sandy  Morton  with  you  'yer,  to  sorter  alleviate  the  old 
man's  feelin's  over  the  loss  of  his  money.  There's  nothin' 
mean  about  us;  no  !  eh,  boys?  [Going  towards  safeJ] 

Oakhurst.  Hear  me  a  moment,  Henry  Pritchard. 
[PRITCHARD  stops  abreast  of  OAKHURST.]  Four  years  ago 
you  were  assaulted  in  the  Arcade  Saloon  in  Sacramento. 
You  would  have  been  killed,  but  your  assailant  suddenly  fell 
dead  by  a  pistol-shot  fired  from  some  unknown  hand.  I 
stood  twenty  feet  from  you  with  folded  arms ;  but  that  shot 
was  fired  by  me, — me,  Henry  Pritchard, — through  my 
clothes,  from  a  derringer  hidden  in  my  waistcoat !  Under 
stand  me,  I  do  not  ask  your  gratitude  now.  But  that  pistol 
is  in  my  right  hand,  and  now  covers  you.  Make  a  single 
motion, — of  a  muscle, — and  it  is  your  last. 

Pritchard  [motionless,  but  excitedly].  You  dare  not  fire  ! 
No,  dare  not !  A  shot  here  will  bring  my  pal  and  Sandy 
Morton  to  confront  you.  You  will  have  killed  me  to  save 
exposure,  have  added  murder  to  imposture  !  You  have  no 
witness  to  this  attempt ! 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  395 

Capper  [opening  door  of  room  L.,  at  the  same  moment  that 
two  policemen  appear  at  door  c.,  and  two  at  room  R.]  You 
are  wrong ;  he  has  five  [crossing  to  SILKY  and  SOAPY,  ana 
laying  his  hands  on  their  shoulders]  ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not, 
he  has  two  more  in  these  gentlemen,  whom  I  know,  and 
who  will  be  quite  as  willing  to  furnish  the  necessary  State's 
evidence  of  the  robbery,  as  of  the  fact  that  they  never  knew 
any  other  Alexander  Morton  than  the  gentleman  who  sits 
in  that  chair. 

Soapy.     That's  so,  Silky. 

Silky.     That's  so,  Soapy. 

Capper  \to  policeman].     Take  them  away. 

[Exit policeman  with  PRITCHARD,  SOAPY,  and  SILKY. 
CAPPER  unbinds  OAKHURST. 

Oakhurst.     Then  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  C. 

Capper.  Yes  !  "A  man  of  ridiculous  theories,  but  well- 
meaning,  brave,  and  honest."  No,  sir ;  don't  apologise  : 
you  were  right,  Mr.  Oakhurst.  It  is  I  who  owe  you  an 
apology.  I  came  here  believing  you  were  the  robber, 
having  no  faith  in  you  or  your  reformation,  expecting, — yes, 
sir, — hoping,  to  detect  you  in  the  act.  Hear  me  !  From 
the  hour  you  first  entered  the  bank,  I  have  shadowed  your 
every  movement,  I  have  been  the  silent  witness  of  all  that 
has  passed  in  this  room.  You  have  played  a  desperate 
game,  Mr.  Oakhurst ;  but  I'll  see  you  through  it.  If  you 
are  true  to  your  resolve  for  the  next  six  days,  I  will  hold 
these  wretches  silent.  I  will  protect  your  imposture  with 
the  strong  arm  of  the  law.  I  don't  like  your  theories,  sir ; 
but  I  believe  you  to  be  well-meaning,  and  I  know  you  to 
be  brave  and  honest. 

Oakhurst  {grasping  his  hand~\.  I  shall  not  forget  this. 
But  Sandy— 

Capper.  I  will  put  my  men  on  his  track,  and  have  him 
brought  quietly  here.  I  can  give  you  no  aid  beyond  that 


396  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

As  an  honourable  man,  I  need  not  tell  you  your  duty. 
Settle  it  with  him  as  best  you  can. 

Oakhurst.  You  are  right ;  I  will  see  him  !  [AsideJ\ 
Unless  he  has  changed,  he  will  listen  to  me,  he  will  obey 
me. 

Capper.     Hush  !     [Blows  out  candlel\     Stand  here  ! 

[CAPPER  and  OAKHURST  retreat  to  wing  L.,  as  enter 
MORTON,  sen.,  from  room  R. 

Morton.  The  private  door  open,  the  room  dark,  and 
Capper  gone.  I  don't  like  this.  The  more  I  think  of  the 
mystery  of  that  man's  manner  this  morning,  the  more  it 
seems  to  hide  some  terrible  secret  I  must  fathom  !  There 
are  matches  here.  [Strikes  a  light,  as  CAPPER  draws  OAK- 
HURST,  struggling,  back  into  shadow.]  What's  this  ?  [Pick 
ing  up  keyJ\  The  key  of  the  vault.  A  chair  overturned  ! 
\Touches  bell.~\  No  answer!  Jackson  gone!  My  God! 
A  terrible  suspicion  haunts  me  !  No  !  Hush  !  [Retreats 
to  private  room  R.,  as  door  of  "L.  opens  and 

Enter  SANDY. 

Sandy  \drunkenly\.  Shoo  !  Shoo  !  boys,  whar  are  ye, 
boys,  eh  ?  Pritchard,  Silky,  Soapy  !  Whar  are  ye,  boys  ? 

Morton  \aside\.     A  crime  has  been  committed,  and  here 
is  one  of  the  gang.     God  has  delivered  him  into  my  hands. 
[Draws  revolver  and  fires,  as  OAKHURST  breaks  from 
CAPPER,    and    strikes     up    MORTON'S    pistol. 
CAPPER   at   same    moment   seizes   SANDY,    and 
drags  him   in  room   L.      MORTON   and  OAK 
HURST  struggle  to  centre. 

Morton  [relaxing  hold  of  OAKHURST].  Alexander  !  Good 
God  !  Why  are  you  here  ?  Why  have  you  stepped  between 
me  and  retribution  ?  You  hesitate.  God  in  heaven  ! 
Speak,  Alexander,  my  son,  speak,  for  God's  sake  !  Tell 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  397 

me — tell  me  that  this  detective's  suspicions  are  not  true. 
Tell  me  that  you  are  not — not — no,  I  cannot  say  it.  Speak, 
Alexander  Morton,  I  command  you  !  Who  is  this  man  you 
have  saved  ?  Is  it — is  it — your  accomplice  ? 

Oakhurst  [sinking  at  his  feef\  Don't  ask  me  !  You  know 
not  what  you  ask  !  I  implore  you — 

Capper  \appearing  quietly  from  room  L.,  and  locking  the 
door  behind  him'].  Your  son  has  acted  under  my  orders. 
The  man  he  has  saved,  as  he  has  saved  you,  was  a  decoy 9 — 
one  of  my  policemen. 

TABLEAU. 

CAPPER,  MORTON,  OAKHURST. 
[Curtain."} 

END   OF   ACT   IIL 


398  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — MR.  MORTON'S  villa,  Russian  Hill.  Night. 
OAKHURST'S  bedroom.  Sofa  in  alcove  c.,  door  in  flat  left 
of  c.  SANDY  MORTON  discovered  unconscious  lying  on 
sofa  ;  OAKHURST  standing  at  his  head,  two  policemen  at 
his  feet.  Candles  on  table  L. 

Oakhurst.  That  will  do.  You  are  sure  he  was  uncon 
scious  as  you  brought  him  in  ? 

\st  Policeman.  Sure,  sir !  He  hasn't  known  anything 
since  we  picked  him  up  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the  bank. 

Oakhurst.  Good  !  You  have  fulfilled  your  orders  well, 
and  your  chief  shall  know  it.  Go  now.  Be  as  cautious  in 
going  out  as  you  were  on  entering.  Here  is  the  private 
staircase,  \ppens  door  L.]  \_Exit  Policemen. 

Oakhurst  \listening\.  Gone  !  and  without  disturbing  any 
one.  So  far  luck  has  befriended  me.  He  will  sleep  to 
night  beneath  his  father's  roof.  His  father  !  umph  !  would 
the  old  man  recognise  him  here  ?  Would  he  take  to  his 
heart  this  drunken  outcast,  picked  from  the  gutters  of  the 
street,  and  brought  here  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law? 
Hush  !  \_A  knock  without^  Ah  !  it  is  the  Colonel:  he  is 
prompt  to  the  hour.  \Opens  door  cautiously,  and  admits 
COL.  STARBOTTLE.] 

Starbottle  \lookin*  around,  and  overlooking  SANDY].  I 
presume  the  other — er — principal  is  not  yet  on  the  ground  ? 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  399 

Oakhurst  [motioning  to  sofd\.     He  is  ! 

Starbottle  [starting  as  he  looks  towards  sofa].  Ged  !  you 
don't  mean  to  say  it's  all  over,  without  witnesses,  without 
my — er — presence  ? 

Oakhurst.  Pardon  me,  Col.  Starbottle;  but,  if  you 
look  again,  you  will  perceive  that  the  gentleman  is  only 
drunk. 

Starbottle.  Eh  ?  Ged  !  not  uncommon,  sir.  not  uncom 
mon  !  I  remember  singular  incident  at — er — Louisville  in 
'47.  Old  Judge  Tollim — know  old  Judge  Tolly? — Ged! 
he  came  to  ground  drunk,  sir ;  couldn't  stand  !  Demn  me, 
sir,  had  to  put  him  into  position  with  kitchen  poker  down 
his  back,  and  two  sections  of  lightning-rod  in  his — er — 
trousers,  demn  me !  Firm,  sir,  firm,  you  understand,  here 
{striking  his  breast],  but — here  [striking  his  legs'] — er — er — 
wobbly  !  No,  sir  !  Intoxication  of  principal  not  a  bar,  sir, 
to  personal  satisfaction  !  [Goes  towards  sofa  with  eyeglass.] 
Good  Ged !  why,  it's  Diego !  [Returning  stiffly  to  OAK- 
HURST.]  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  this  is  a  case  in  which  I 
cannot  act.  Cannot,  sir, — impossible  !  absurd  !  pre — post 
— er — ous.  I  recognise  in  the — er — inebriated  menial  on 
yonder  sofa  a  person,  sir,  who  having  already  declined  my 
personal  challenge,  is — er — excluded  from  the  consideration 
of  gentlemen.  The  person  who  lies  there,  sir,  is  Diego, — a 
menial  of  Don  Jose  Castro, — alias  "  Sandy,"  the  vagabond 
of  Red  Gulch. 

Oakhurst.  You  have  omitted  one  title,  his  true  one. 
He  is  Alexander  Morton,  the  son  of  the  master  of  this 
house. 

Starbottle  [starting  in  bewilderment].  Alexander  Morton  ! 
[Aside."]  Ged  !  my  first  suspicions  were  correct.  Star,  you 
have  lost  the  opportunity  of  making  your  fortune  as  a 
scoundrel ;  but  you  have,  at  a  pecuniary  sacrifice,  preserved 
your  honour. 


400  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Oakhurst.  Yes.  Hear  me,  Col.  Starbottle.  I  have 
summoned  you  here  to-night,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  on 
an  %ir  of  honour.  I  have  sought  you  as  my  father's  legal 
counsel,  as  a  disir  Crested  witness,  as  a  gentleman  of  honour. 
The  man  who  lies  before  you  was  once  my  friend  and 
partner.  I  have  wronged  him  doubly.  As  his  partner,  I 
ran  away  with  the  woman  he  believed,  and  still  believes,  to 
be  his  wife ;  as  his  friend,  I  have  for  a  twelvemonth  kept 
him  from  the  enjoyment  of  his  home,  his  patrimony,  by  a 
shameful  deception.  I  have  summoned  you  to-night  to 
witness  my  confession  \  as  a  lawyer,  to  arrange  those  details 
necessary  to  restore  to  him  his  property;  as  a  man  of 
honour,  to  receive  from  me  whatever  retribution  he  demands. 
You  will  be  a  witness  to  our  interview.  Whatever  befalls 
me  here,  you  will  explain  to  Mr.  Morton — to  Jovita — that  I 
accepted  it  as  a  man,  and  did  not  avoid,  here  or  elsewhere, 
the  penalty  of  my  crime.  [Folding  his  arms.] 

Starbottle.  Umph !  the  case  is,  as  you  say,  a  delicate 
one,  but  not — not — peculiar.  No,  sir  !  Ged,  sir,  I  remem 
ber  Tom  Marshall — know  Tom  Marshall  of  Kentucky  ? — 
said  to  me,  "Star!" — always  called  me  Star, — "how  in 
blank,  sir,  can  you  remember  the  real  names  of  your  clients?" 
"Why,"  says  I,  " Tom,"— always  called  him  Tom,— 
"yesterday  I  was  called  to  make  will — most  distinguished 
family  of  Virginia — as  lawyer  and  gentleman,  you  under 
stand,  can't  mention  name.  Waited  for  signature — most 
distinguished  name.  Ged,  sir,  man  signed  Bloggins — Peter 
Bloggins.  Fact,  demme  !  '  Mistake,'  I  said, — '  excitement  ; 
exaltation  of  fever.  Non  compos.  Compose  yourself,  Bob.' 
• — '  Star/  he  said, — always  called  me  Star, — '  for  forty-seven 
years  I  have  been  an  impostor  ! ' — his  very  words,  sir.  *  1 
am  not  ' — you  understand  :  *  I  am  Peter  Bloggins  ! ' ' 

Oakhurst.     But,  my  dear  Colonel,  I — 

Starbottle  [loftily].      Say  no  more,  sir !    I  accept  the — 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  40 1 

er — position.  Let  us  see  !  The  gentleman  will,  on  recog 
nition,  probably  make  a  personal  attack.  You  are  armed. 
Ah  !  no  ?  Umph  !  On  reflection,  I  would  not  permit  him 
to  strike  a  single  blow — I  would  anticipate  it.  It  will  pro 
voke  the  challenge  from  him,  leaving  you,  sir,  the — er — 
choice  of  weapons. 

Oakhurst.  Hush  !  he  is  moving  !  Take  your  stand  here, 
in  this  alcove.  Remember,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
honour,  Col.  Starbottle,  I  trust  you  not  to  interfere  between 
the  injured  man  and — justice  !  [Pushes  COL.  STARBOTTLE 
into  alcove  behind  couch  and  approaches  SANDY.] 

Sandy  [waking  slowly  and  incoherently].  Hush  !  Silky ! 
Hush !  Eh?  Oh,  hush  yourself.  [Sings.] 

Oh,  'yer's  yer  Sandy  Morton, 
Drink  him  down  1 

Eh  !  Oh  !  [Half  sits  up  on  couch.]  Eh  !  [Looking  around 
him.]  Where  the  devil  am  I  ? 

Oakhurst  [advancing  and  leaning  over  SANDY'S  couch]. 
In  the  house  of  your  father,  Alexander  Morton. 

Sandy  [recoiling  in  astonishment].  His  voice — John  Oak- 
hurst  !  What — ah  !  [Rises,  and  rushes  towards  OAKHURST 
with  uplifted  hand.] 

Starbottle  [gesticulating  in  whisper],  A  blow  !  a  single 
blow  would  be  sufficient 

Sandy  [looking  at  OAKHURST,  who  regards  him  calmly].  I 
— eh  !  I — eh  !  Ha,  ha  !  I'm  glad  to  see — old  pard  !  I'm 
glad  to  see  ye  !  [CoL.  STARBOTTLE  lifts  his  hand  in  amaze 
ment^] 

Oakhurst  [declining  his  hand].  Do  you  understand  me, 
Sandy  Morton  ?  Listen  !  I  am  John  Oakhurst, — the  man 
who  has  deceived  your  father,  who  has  deceived  you. 

Sandy  [without  heeding  his  words,  but  regarding  him  affec 
tionately]  To  think  of  it — Jack  Oakhurst !  It's  like  him, 

VOL  i.  2  c 


4O2  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

like  Jack.  He  was  allers  onsartain,  the  darned  little  cuss  ! 
Jack  !  Look  at  him,  will  ye,  boys  ?  look  at  him  !  Crowed  too, 
and  dressed  to  kill,  and  sittin'  in  this  'yer  house  as  natril  as 
a  jaybird  !  [Looking  aroundJ]  Natty,  ain't  it,  Jack  ?  and 
this  'yer's  your  house — the  old  man's  house — eh  ?  Why,  this 
is — this  is  where  she  came.  Jack,  Jack  !  [Eagerly.]  Tell 
me,  pard, — where  is  she? 

Starbottle  [aside,  rubbing  his  hands'].  We  shall  have  it 
now ! 

Oakhurst.  She  has  gone, — gone  !  But  hear  me  !  She 
had  deceived  you,  as  she  has  me.  She  has  gone, — gone 
with  her  first  husband,  Henry  Pritchard. 

Sandy  [stupefied]    Gone  !   Her  first  husband  !   Pritcharc! ! 

Oakhurst     Ay  !  your  wife  ! 

Sandy.  Oh,  damn  my  wife !  I'm  talking  of  Mary, — Miss 
Mary, — the  little  schoolma'am,  Jack;  the  little  rose  of 
Poker  Flat.  Oh!  I  see — ye  didn't  know  her,  Jack, — the 
pertiest,  sweetest  little — 

Oakhurst  [turning  away  coldly.]     Ay,  ay  !    She  is  here  ! 

Sandy  [looking  after  him  affectionately].  Look  at  him, 
boys !  Allers  the  same, — high-toned,  cold,  even  to  his 
pardner  !  That's  him, — Jack  Oakhurst !  But  Jack,  Jack, 
you're  goin'  to  shake  hands,  ain't  ye?  \Extends  his  hand 
after  a  pause.  OAKHURST  takes  it  gloomily. ~\ 

Col.  Starbottle  [who  has  been  regarding  interview  with 
visible  scorn  and  disgust,  advancing  to  OAKHURST.]  You  will 
— er — pardon  me  if,  under  the — er — circumstances,  I  with 
draw  from  this — er — disgraceful  proceeding.  The  condon 
ation,  by  that  man,  of  two  of  the  most  tremendous  offences 
to  society  and  to  the  code,  without  apology  or  satisfaction, 
Ged,  sir,  is — er — er — of  itself  an  insult  to  the  spectator.  I 
go,  sir — 

Oakhurst.     But,  Col.  Starbottle— 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  403 

Starbottk.  Permit  me  to  say,  sir,  that  I  hold  myself  for 
this,  sir,  responsible,  sir, — personally  responsible. 

[Exit  STAR  BOTTLE,  glancing  furiously  at  SANDY,  who 
sinks  on  sofa  laughing. 

Oakhurst  [aside].  He  will  change  his  mind  in  half  an 
hour.  But,  in  the  meantime,  time  is  precious.  [Aloud.'} 
Sandy,  come  ! 

Sandy,     [rising  with  alacrity].     Yes,  Jack,  I'm  ready. 

Oakhurst.  We  are  going  [slowly  and  solemnly} — we  are 
going  to  see  your  father. 

Sandy  [dropping  back  with  bashful  embarrassment,  and 
struggling  to  release  his  arm  from  OAKHURST].  No,  Jack  ! 
Not  just  yet,  Jack  ;  in  a  little  while,  ole  boy  !  in  about  six 
months,  or  mebbe  a  year,  Jack,  not  now,  not  now !  I  ain't 
feelin'  exactly  well,  Jack, — I  ain't. 

Oakhurst.  Nonsense,  Sandy  !  Consider  your  duty  and 
my  honour. 

Sandy  [regaining  his  seat].  That's  all  very  well,  Jack; 
but  ye  see,  pard,  you've  known  the  old  man  for  nigh  on  a 
year,  and  it's  twenty-five  since  I  met  him.  No,  Jack ; 
you  don't  play  any  ole  man  on  to  me  to-night,  Jack.  No, 
you  and  mell  just  drop  out  for  a  fasear.  Jack,  eh? 
[Taking  OAKHURST'S  arm.]  Come  ! 

Oakhurst.  Impossible !  Hush !  [Listening.']  It  is  he 
passing  through  the  corridor.  [Goes  to  wing  R.  and 
listens.] 

Sandy  [crowding  hastily  behind  OAKHURST  in  alarm]. 
But,  I  say,  Jack !  he  won't  come  in  here  ?  He's  goin'  to 
bed,  you  know.  Eh  ?  It  ain't  right  for  a  man  o'  his  years 
• — and  he  must  be  goin'  on  ninety,  Jack — to  be  up  like  this. 
It  ain't  healthy. 

Oakhurst.  You  know  him  not.  He  seems  to  need  no 
rest  [sadly].  Night  after  night,  long  after  the  servants  are 
abed  and  the  house  is  still,  I  hear  that  step  slowly  pacing 


404  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

the  corridor.     It  is  the  last  sound  as  I  close  my  eyes,  the 
first  challenge  of  the  morning. 

Sandy.  The  ole  scound — {checking  himself~\ — I  mean, 
Jack,  the  ole  man  has  suthin'  on  his  mind.  But,  Jack  \in 
great  alarni\,  he  don't  waltz  in  upon  ye,  Jack  ?  He  don't 
p'int  them  feet  in  'yer,  Jack  ?  Ye  ain't  got  to  put  up  with 
that,  Jack,  along  o}  yer  other  trials  ? 

Oakhurst.  He  often  seeks  me  here.  Ah  !  yes — he  is 
coming  this  way  now. 

Sandy  \in  ludicrous  terror~\.  Jack,  pard,  quick  !  hide  me 
somewhere,  Jack ! 

Oakhurst  [opening  door  R.].  In  there,  quick !  Not  a 
sound,  as  you  value  your  future  ! 

\Exit  SANDY  hurriedly  R. 


SCENE  2. —  The  same.     Enter  door  R.  OLD  MORTON,  in 
dressing-gown,  with  candle. 

Old  Morton.  Not  abed  yet,  Alexander  ?  Well,  well  !  I 
don't  blame  you,  my  son :  it  has  been  for  you  a  trying, 
trying  night.  Yes,  I  see  :  like  me,  you  are  a  little  nervous 
and  wakeful.  [Slowly  takes  chair,  and  comfortably  composes 
himself] 

Oakhurst  \aside\.  He  is  in  for  a  midnight  gossip.  How 
shall  I  dispose  of  Sandy  ? 

Old  Morton.  Yes  \jneditativ ely\ — yes,  you  have  over 
worked  lately.  Never  mind.  In  a  day  or  two  more  you 
shall  have  a  vacation,  sir, — a  vacation  ! 

Oakhurst  \aside~\.  He  knows  not  how  truly  he  speaks. 
\Aloud.~\  Yes,  sir,  I  was  still  up.  I  have  only  just  now 
dismissed  the  policemen. 

Old  Morton.  Ay !  I  heard  voices,  and  saw  a  light  in 
your  window.  I  came  to  tell  you,  Alexander,  Capper  has 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  405 

explained  all  about — about  the  decoy  !  More  ;  he  has  told 
me  of  your  courage  and  your  invaluable  assistance.  For 
a  moment,  sir,— I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  in  confidence, 
— I  doubted  you — 

Oak  hurst  [in  feigned  deprecation].     Oh,  sir  !   , 

Old  Morton.  Only  for  a  moment.  You  will  find,  Alex 
ander,  that  even  that  doubt  shall  have  full  apology  when 
the  year  of  your  probation  has  expired.  Besides,  sir,  I 
know  all. 

Oakhurst  [starting}.     All ! 

Old  Morton.  Yes,  the  story  about  the  Duchess  and  your 
child.  You  are  surprised.  Col.  Starbottle  told  me  all. 
I  forgive  you,  Alexander,  for  the  sake  of  your  boy. 

Oakhurst.     My  boy,  sir  ! 

Old  Morton.  Yes,  your  boy.  And  let  me  tell  you,  sir, 
he's  a  fine  young  fellow.  Looks  like  you, — looks  as  you 
did  when  you  were  a  boy.  He's  a  Morton,  too,  every  inch 
of  him,  there's  no  denying  that.  No,  sir.  You  may  have 
changed ;  but  he — he  is  the  living  image  of  my  little  Alex 
ander.  He  took  to  me,  too, — lifted  his  little  arms, — and 
— and — [.Becomes  affected,  and  leans  his  head  in  his  hands. ] 

Oakhurst  [rising~\.  You  are  not  well,  sir.  Let  me  lead 
you  to  your  room. 

Old  Morton.  No !  It  is  nothing :  a  glass  of  water, 
Alexander  ! 

Oakhurst  [aside].  He  is  very  pale.  The  agitation  of 
the  night  has  overcome  him.  [Gees  to  table  R.]  A  little 
spirits  will  revive  him.  [Pours  from  decanter  in  glass,  and 
returns  to  MORTON.] 

Old  Morton  [after  drinking].  There  was  spirits  in  that 
water,  Alexander.  Five  years  ago,  I  vowed  at  your  mother's 
grave  to  abandon  the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors. 

Oakhurst.     Believe  me,  sir,  my  mother  will  forgive  you. 

Old  Morton.     Doubtless.     It  has   revived   me.     I   ara 


406  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

getting  to  be  an  old  man,  Aleck.  [Holds  out  his  glass  half 
unconsciously,  and  OAKHURST  replenishes  it  from  decanter -.] 
Yes,  an  old  man,  Aleck  ;  but  the  boy, — ah  !  I  live  again  in 
him.  The  little  rascal !  He  asked  me,  Aleck,  for  a  "  chaw 
tobacker !"  and  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  the  "ole  duffer." 
Ha,  ha  !  He  did.  Ha,  ha !  Come,  come !  don't  be  de 
spondent.  I  was  like  you  once,  damn  it, — ahem — it's  all 
for  the  best,  my  boy,  all  for  the  best.  I'll  take  the  young 
rascal  [aside] — damn  it,  he's  already  taken  me — [aloud']  on 
equal  terms.  There,  Aleck,  what  do  you  say7 

Oakhurst.  Really,  sir,  this  forbearance, — this  kindness 
— [aside']  I  see  a  ray  of  lighi. 

Old  Morton.  Nonsense  !  I'll  take  the  boy,  I  tell  you, 
and  do  well  for  him — the  little  rascal  ! — as  if  he  were  the 
legal  heir.  But  I  say,  Aleck  [laughing],  ha,  ha  ! — what 
about — ha,  ha  ! — what  about  Dona  Jovita,  eh  ?  and  what 
about  Don  Jose  Castro,  eh  ?  How  will  the  lady  like  a 
ready-made  family,  eh?  [Poking  OAKHURST  in  the  ribs] 
What  will  the  Don  say  to  the  family  succession  ?  Ha,  ha  ! 

Oakhurst  [proudly].     Really,  sir,  I  care  but  little. 

Old  Morton  [aside]  Oh,  ho  !  I'll  sound  him.  [Aloud] 
Look  ye,  Alexander,  I  have  given  my  word  to  you  and  Don 
Jose  Castro,  and  I'll  keep  it.  But  if  you  can  do  any  better, 
eh  ? — if — eh  ? — the  schoolma'am's  a  mighty  pretty  girl,  and 
a  bright  one,  eh,  Aleck  ?  And  it's  all  in  the  family — eh  ? 
And  she  thinks  well  of  you  ;  and  I  will  say,  for  a  girl  brought 
up  as  she's  been,  and  knowin'  your  relations  with  the 
Duchess  and  the  boy,  to  say  a  kind  word  for  ye,  Aleck,  is 
a  good  sign, — you  follow  me,  Aleck? — if  you  think — why, 
old  Don  Josd  might  whistle  for  a  son-in-law,  eh  ? 

Oakhurst  [interrupting  indignantly]  Sir  !  [Aside]  Stop  ! 
[Aloud]  Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  if  I  should  consent 
to  this — suggestion — that,  if  the  lady  were  willing,  you 
would  offer  no  impediment? 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  407 

Old  Morton.  Impediment  !  my  dear  boy,  you  should 
have  my  blessing. 

Oakhurst.  Pardon  me  a  moment.  You  have  in  the  last 
year,  sir,  taught  me  the  importance  of  business  formality  in 
all  the  relations  of  life.  Following  that  idea,  the  conditions 
of  my  engagement  with  Jovita  Castro  were  drawn  up  with 
your  hand.  Are  you  willing  to  make  this  recantation  as 
formal,  this  new  contract  as  business-like  and  valid  ? 

Old  Morton  [eagerly].     I  am. 

Oakhurst.  Then  sit  here,  and  write  at  my  dictation. 
[Pointing  to  table  L.  OLD  MORTON  lakes  seat  at  table.]  "  In 
view  of  the  evident  preference  of  my  son  Alexander  Morton 
and  of  certain  family  interests,  I  hereby  revoke  my  consent 
to  his  marriage  with  the  Dona  Jovita  Castro,  and  accord 
him  full  permission  to  woo  and  win  his  cousin,  Miss  Mary 
Morris ;  promising  him  the  same  aid  and  assistance  pre 
viously  offered  in  his  suit  with  Hiss  Castro." 

Old  Morton  [signing\.  Alexander  Morton,  sen.  Theie, 
Aleck  !  You  have  forgotten  one  legal  formality.  We  ha^e 
no  witness.  Ha,  ha  ! 

Oakhurst  [significantly].     I  will  be  a  sufficient  witness. 

Old  Morton.  Ha,  ha  !  [Fills  glass  from  decanter,  after 
which  OAKHURST  quietly  removes  decanter  beyond  his  reach.] 
Very  good  !  Aleck,  I've  been  thinking  of  a  plan, — I've  been 
thinking  of  retiring  from  the  bank.  I'm  getting  old,  and 
my  ways  are  not  the  popular  ways  of  business  here.  I've 
been  thinking  of  you,  you  dog, — of  leaving  the  bank  to  you, 
— to  you,  sir, — eh — the  day — the  day  you  marry  the  school- 
ma'am — eh  !  I'll  stay  at  home,  and  take  care  of  the  boy — 
eh  ! — hie  !  The  little  rascal ! — lifted  his  arms  to  me — did, 
Aleck  !  by  God  !  [incoherently.}  Eh  ! 

Oakhurst.  Hush  !  [Aside.]  Sandy  will  overhear  him, 
and  appear. 

Old  Morton  [greatly  affected  by  liquor\     Hush !  eh  ! — of 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

course — shoo  !  shoo  !  \The  actor  will  here  endeavour  to 
reproduce  in  OLD  MORTON'S  drunken  behaviour ',  without 
exactly  imitating  him,  the  general  characteristics  of  his  sons 
intoxication^  Eh  !  I  say,  Aleck,  old  boy  !  what  will  the 
Don  say  ?  eh  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  And  Jovita,  that  firebrand, 
how  will  she — hie — like  it,  eh?  \Laughs  immoderately.] 

Oakhurst.  Hush  !  We  will  be  overheard  !  The  servants, 
sir! 

Old  Morton.  Damn  the  servants  !  Don't  I — hie — pay 
them  wages — eh  ? 

Oakhurst.  Let  me  lead  you  to  your  own  room.  You 
are  nervously  excited.  A  little  rest,  sir,  will  do  you  good. 
\Taking  his  arm.~\ 

Old  Morton.  No  shir,  no  shir,  'm  nerrer  goin'  to  bed 
any  more.  Bed's  bad  habit  ! — hie — drunken  habit.  Lesh 
stay  up  all  ni,  Aleck !  You  and  me !  Lesh  nev'r — go — 
bed  any  more  !  Whar's  whisky — eh  ?  [Staggers  to  the 
table  for  decanter  as  OAKHURST  seizes  him,  struggles  up  stage, 
and  then  OLD  MORTON,  in  struggle,  falls  helplessly  on  sofa, 
in  same  attitude  as  SANDY  was  discovered^ 

Enter  SANDY  cautiously  from  door  L. 

Sandy  \to  OAKHURST].     Jack  !     Eh,  Jack — 

Oakhurst.  Hush  !  Go  !  I  will  follow  you  in  a  moment 
[Pushes  him  back  to  door  L.] 

Sandy  {catching  sight  of  OLD  MORTON].  Hallo ! 
What's  up  ? 

Oakhurst  Nothing.  He  was  overtaken  with  a  sudden 
faintness.  He  will  revive  presently :  go  ! 

Sandy  \_hesit ating\.  I  say,  Jack,  he  wasn't  taken  sick 
along  o'  me,  eh,  Jack  ? 

Oakhurst.  No!  no!  But  go!  [pushing  him  toward 
door\ 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  409 

Sandy.  Hold  on  !  I  am  going.  But,  Jack,  I've  got  a 
kind  of  faintness  Jyer,  too.  [Goes  to  side-table,  and  takes  up 
decanter.}  And  thar's  nothin'  reaches  that  faintness  like 
\v  hisky  .  [Fills  glass.  ] 

Old  Morton  \_drunkenly  and  half-consciously  from  couch~\. 
Whisky  —  who  shed  —  whisky—  eh  ?  Eh  !  —  O  —  gim'me  some, 
Aleck  —  Aleck,  my  son,  —  my  son  !  —  my  old  prodigal  —  Old 
Proddy,  my  boy  —  gim  me  —  whisky  —  [ 


Oh,  'yer's  yer  good  old  whisky, 

Drink  it  down  ! 

Eh  ?     I  com  —  mand  you  —  pass  the  whisky  ! 

[SANDY,  at  first  panicstricken,  and  then  remorsefully 
conscious,  throws  glass  down  with  gesture  of  fear 
.  and  loathing.     OAKHURST  advances  to  his  side 
hurriedly. 

Oakhurst  [in  hurried  whisper].  Give  him  the  whisky, 
quick  !  It  will  keep  him  quiet.  [Is  about  to  take  decanter 
when  SANDY  seizes  it  :  struggle  with  OAKHURST.] 

Sandy  [with  feeling].  No,  no,  Jack,  no  !  [Suddenly  with 
great  strength  and  determination  breaks  from  him^  and  throws 
decanter  from  window  '.]  No,  never  ! 

Old  Morton  [struggling  drunkenly  to  his  feet].  Eh  —  who 
sh'd  never?  [OAKHURST  shoves  SANDY  in  room  L.,  and 
follows  him,  closing  door  •.]  Eh!  Aleck?  [Groping.~]  Eh! 
where'sh  light  ?  All  gone  !  [Lapses  on  sofa  again  ,  after  an 
ineffectual  struggle  to  get  up,  and  then  resumes  his  old  attitude.] 

[Change  scene  quickly.] 


4  io  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

SCENE  3. — Ante-room  in  MR.  MORTON'S  villa.  Front  scene. 
Enter  DON  JOSE  CASTRO  and  CONCHO,  preceded  by 
SERVANT,  L. 

Servant.     This  way,  gentlemen. 

Don  Jose.     Carry  this  card  to  Alexander  Morton,  sen. 

Servant.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  there's  only  one  name 
here,  sir  [looking  at  CONCHO]. 

Don  Jose  [proudly].     That  is  my  servant,  sir. 

{Exit  SERVANT. 

Don  Jose  \aside\.  I  don't  half  like  this  business.  But 
my  money  locked  up  in  his  bank,  and  my  daughter's  hand 
bound  to  his  son,  demand  it.  \_Aloud.~\  This  is  no  child's 
play,  Concho,  you  understand. 

Concho.  Ah  !  I  am  wise  !  Believe  me,  if  I  have  not 
proofs  which  shall  blanch  the  cheek  of  this  old  man,  I  am 
a  fool,  Don  Jose* ! 

Re-enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Mr.  Morton,  sen.,  passed  a  bad  night,  and  has 
left  word  not  to  be  disturbed  this  morning.  But  Mr. 
Morton,  jun.,  will  attend  you,  sir. 

Concho  [aside'].  So  the  impostor  will  face  it  out.  Well, 
let  him  come. 

Don  Jose  [to  SERVANT].     I  wait  his  pleasure. 

\Exit  SERVANT. 

Don  Jose.  You  hear,  Concho  ?  You  shall  face  this  man. 
I  shall  repeat  to  him  all  you  have  told  me.  If  you  fail 
to  make  good  your  charge,  on  your  head  rests  the  con 
sequences. 

Concho.  He  will  of  course  deny.  He  is  a  desperate 
man  :  he  will  perhaps  attack  me.  Eh  !  Ah  !  {Drawing 
revolver.  ] 

Don  Jose.     Put  up  your  foolish  weapon.     The  sight  of 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  4 1 1 

the  father  he  has  deceived  will  be  more  terrible  to  him  than 
the  pistol  of  the  spy. 

Enter  COL.  STARBOTTLE,  c. 

Starbottle.  Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  jun.,  will  be  with  you 
in  a  moment.  [Takes  attitude  by  door,  puts  his  hand  in  his 
breast,  and  inflates  himself] 

Concho  [to  DON  Jos£  aside'].  It  is  the  bullying  lawyer. 
They  will  try  to  outface  us,  my  patron ;  but  we  shall 
triumph.  [Aloud.]  He  comes,  eh  ! — Mr.  Alexander  Morton, 
gentlemen  !  I  will  show  you  a  cheat,  an  impostor  ! 

Enter,  in  correct,  precise  morning  dress,  SANDY  MORTON. 
There  is  in  his  make-up  and  manner  a  suggestion  of  the 
father. 

Concho  [recoiling,  aside].  Diego  !  The  real  son  !  [Aloud, 
furiously. ]  It  is  a  trick  to  defeat  justice, — eh  ! — a  miserable 
trick  !  But  it  shall  fail,  it  shall  fail ! 

Col.  Starbottle.  Permit  me,  a  moment, — a  single  moment. 
[To  CONCHO.]  You  have — er — er — characterised  my  intro 
duction  of  this — er — gentleman  as  a  "cheat"  and  an 
"  imposture. "  Are  you  prepared  to  deny  that  this  is 
Alexander  Morton  ? 

Don  Jose  [astonished,  aside].  These  Americanos  are  of 
the  devil  !  [Aloud  and  sternly '.]  Answer  him,  Concho,  I 
command  you. 

Concho  [in  half-insane  rage]  It  is  Alexander  Morton ;  but 
it  is  a  trick, — a  cowardly  trick !  Where  is  the  other  im 
postor,  this  Mr.  John  Oakhurst? 

Sandy  [advancing  with  dignity  and  something  of  his  father's 
cold  manner].  He  will  answer  for  himself  when  called  for. 
[To  DON  Jos£.]  You  have  asked  for  me,  sir:  may  I 
inquire  your  business  ? 


4 1 2  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Concho.     Eh  !     It  is  a  trick, — a  trick  ! 

Don  Jose  [to  CONCHO].  Silence,  sir  !  [To  SANDY,  with 
dignity. ~\  I  know  not  the  meaning  of  this  masquerade.  I 
only  know  that  you  are  not  the  gentleman  hitherto  known  to 
me  as  the  son  of  Alexander  Morton.  I  am  here,  sir,  to 
demand  my  rights  as  a  man  of  property  and  a  father.  I 
have  received  this  morning  a  cheque  from  the  house  of 
Morton  &  Son  for  the  amount  of  my  deposit  with  them. 
So  far — in  view  of  this  complication — it  is  well.  Who 
knows  ?  Bueno  !  But  the  signature  of  Morton  &  Son  to 
the  cheque  is  not  in  the  handwriting  I  have  known.  Look 
at  it,  sir.  [To  SANDY,  handing  cheque.~] 

Sandy  [examining  cheque].  It  is  my  handwriting,  sir,  and 
was  signed  this  morning.  Has  it  been  refused  ? 

Don  Jose.  Pardon  me,  sir.  It  has  not  been  presented. 
With  this  doubt  in  my  mind,  I  preferred  to  submit  it  first 
to  you. 

Starbottle.  A  moment,  a  single  moment,  sir.  While  as 
a — er — gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour,  I — er — appreciate 
your  motives,  permit  me  to  say,  sir,  as  a  lawyer,  that  your 
visit  is  premature.  On  the  testimony  of  your  own  witness, 
the  identification  of  Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  jun.,  is — er — 
complete ;  he  has  admitted  the  signature  as  his  own  •  you 
have  not  yet  presented  the  cheque  to  the  bank. 

Don  Jose.  Pardon  me,  Col.  Starbottle.  It  is  not  all 
[To  SANDY.]  By  a  written  agreement  with  Alexander 
Morton,  sen.,  the  hand  of  my  daughter  is  promised  to  his 
son,  who  now  stands  before  me,  as  my  former  servant, 
dismissed  from  my  service  for  drunkenness. 

Sandy.     That  agreement  is  revoked. 

Don  Jose.     Revoked  ! 

Sandy  [handing  paper].  Cast  your  eyes  over  that  paper. 
At  least  you  will  recognise  that  signature. 

Don  Jose  [reads'].     "  In  view  of  the  evident  preference  of 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  413 

my  son  Alexander  Morton,  and  of  certain  family  interests,  I 
hereby  revoke  my  consent  to  his  marriage  with  the  Dona 
Jovita  Castro,  and  accord  him  full  permission  to  woo  and 
win  his  cousin.  Miss  Mary  Morris ;  promising  him  the  same 
aid  and  assistance  previously  offered  in  his  suit  with  Miss 
Castro. — ALEXANDER  MORTON,  SEN." 

Concho.  Ah  !  Carramba  !  Do  you  not  see  the  trick, — 
eh,  the  conspiracy?  It  was  this  man,  as  Diego,  your 
daughter's  groom,  helped  his  friend  Mr.  Oakhurst  to  the 
heiress.  Ah  !  you  comprehend  ?  It  was  an  old  trick  ! 
You  shall  see  !  you  shall  see  !  Ah  !  I  am  wise — I  am 
wise ! 

Don  Jose  [aside].  Could  I  have  been  deceived  ?  But 
no !  This  paper  that  releases  him  gives  the  impostor  no 
claim. 

Sandy  [resuming  his  old  easy  manner,  dropping  his 
formality,  and  placing  his  hand  on  DON  Josh's  shoulder]. 
Look  'yar,  ole  man :  I  didn't  allow  to  ever  see  ye  agin, 
and  this  'yer  ain't  none  o'  my  seekin'.  But,  since  yer 
here,  I  don't  mind  tellin'  ye  that  but  for  me  that  gal  of 
yours  would  have  run  away  a  year  ago,  and  married  an 
unknown  lover.  And  I  don't  mind  adding,  that,  hed  I 
known  that  unknown  lover  was  my  friend  John  Oakhurst, 
I'd  have  helped  her  to  do  it  \_Going.~\  Good-morning, 
Don  Jose. 

Don  Jose.  Insolent !  I  shall  expect  an  account  for  this 
from  your — father,  sir. 

Sandy.     Adios,  Don  Josd  [Exit  c. 

Concho.  It  is  a  trick — I  told  you.  Ah  !  I  am  wise  ! 
[Going  to  DON  Jos£.] 

Don  Jose  [throwing  him  off\  Fool  !  [Exit  DON 
JOSE.] 

Concho  [infuriated'].  Eh  !  Fool  yourself— dotard  !  No 
matter!  I  will  expose  all — ah!  I  will  see  Jovita ; — I  will 


414  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

revenge  myself  on  this  impostor  !  \Is  about  to  follow,  when 
COL.  STARBOTTLE  leaves  his  position  by  the  door  and  touches 
CONCHO  on  the  shoulder •.] 

Starbottle.     Excuse  me. 

Concho.     Eh  ? 

Starbottle.     You  have  forgotten  something. 

Concho.     Something  ? 

Starbottle.  An  apology,  sir.  You  were  good  enough  to 
express — er — incredulity — when  I  presented  Mr.  Morton: 
you  were  kyind  enough  to  characterise  the  conduct  of  my 
— er — principal  by — an  epithet.  You  have  alluded  to  me, 
sir, — ME — 

Concho  [wrathfully].  Bully !  [Aside."]  I  have  heard 
that  this  pomposo,  this  braggart,  is  a  Yankee  trick  too  j  that 
he  has  the  front  of  a  lion,  the  liver  of  the  chicken.  [AloudJ] 
Yes,  I  have  said,  you  hear  I  have  said,  I,  Concho  [striking 
his  breast],  have  said  you  are  a — bully  ! 

Starbottle  [coolly. ~]  Then  you  are  prepared  to  give  me 
satisfaction,  sir, — personal  satisfaction  ? 

Concho  [raging].  Yes,  sir,  now — you  understand,  now 
[taking  out  pistol],  anywhere,  here  !  Yes,  here  !  Ah  !  you 
start, — yes,  here  and  now  !  Face  to  face,  you  understand, 
without  seconds, — face  to  face.  So  !  [Presenting  pistolJ] 

Starbottle  [quietly].     Permit  me  to — er — apologise — 

Concho.     Ah  !     It  is  too  late  ! 

Slarbottle  [interrupting].  Excuse  me,  but  I  feared  you 
would  not  honour  me  so  completely  and  satisfactorily. 
Ged,  sir,  I  begin  to  respect  you  !  I  accede  to  all  your 
propositions  of  time  and  position.  The  pistol  you  hold  in 
your  hand  is  a  derringer,  I  presume,  loaded.  Ah — er — I 
am  right.  The  one  I  now  produce  [showing  pistol]  is — er 
— as  you  will  perceive,  the  same  size  and  pattern,  and — er 
— unloaded.  We  will  place  them  both,  so,  under  the  cloth 
of  this  table.  You  shall  draw  one  pistol,  I  will  take  the 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  4 1 5 

other.  I  will  put  that  clock  at  ten  minutes  to  nine,  when 
we  will  take  our  positions  across  this  table ;  as  you — er — 
happily  express  it,  "  face  to  face."  As  the  clock  strikes  the 
hour,  we  will  fire  on  the  second  stroke. 

Concho  [aside].  It  is  a  trick — a  Yankee  trick  !  [Aloud.] 
I  am  ready.  Now — at  once  ! 

Starbottle  [gravely].  Permit  me,  sir,  to  thank  you.  Your 
conduct,  sir,  reminds  me  of  singular  incident — 

Concho  [angrily  interrupting].  Come,  come !  It  is  no 
child's-play.  We  have  ,too  much  of  this  talk,  eh !  It  is 
action,  eh,  you  comprehend, — action. 

[STARBOTTLE  places  pistols  under  the  cloth,  and  sets 
clock.  CONCHO  draws  pistol  from  cloth  ;  STAR- 
BOTTLE  takes  remaining  pistol.  Both  men  assume 
position^  presenting  their  weapons,  STARBOTTLE 
pompously  but  seriously,  CONCHO  angrily  and 
nervously. 

Starbottle  [after  a  pause"].  One  moment,  a  single 
moment — 

Concho.  Ah,  a  trick  !  Coward  !  you  cannot  destroy  my 
aim. 

Starbottle.  I  overlook  the — er — epithet.  I  wished  only 
to  ask,  if  you  should  be — er — unfortunate,  if  there  was  any 
thing  I  could  say  to  your — er — friends. 

Concho.  You  cannot  make  the  fool  of  me,  coward. 
No! 

Starbottle.  My  object  was  only  precautionary.  Owing 
to  the  position  in  which  you — er — persist  in  holding  your 
weapon,  in  a  line  with  my  right  eye,  I  perceive  that  a  ray 
of  light  enters  the  nipple,  and — er — illuminates  the  barrel. 
I  judge  from  this,  that  you  have  been  unfortunate  enough 
to  draw  the — er — er — unloaded  pistol. 

Concho  [tremulously  lowering  weapon].  Eh  !  Ah  !  This 
is  murder!  [Drops pistol.]  Murder! — eh — help!  [retreating^ 


4 1 6  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

help  !  [Exit  hurriedly  door  c.,  as  clock  strikes.  COL.  STAR- 
BOTTLE  lowers  his  pistol,  and  moves  with  great  pomposity  to 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  taking  up  pistol.~\ 

Starbottle  [examining pistol].  Ah  !  [Lifts  it,  and  discharges 
it.~\  It  seems  that  I  am  mistaken.  [Going.]  The  pistol 
was — er — loaded  !  [Exit. 


SCENE  4. — Front  scene.     Room  in  villa.     Enter  Miss  MARY 
and  JOVITA. 

Miss  Mary.  I  tell  you,  you  are  wrong.  You  are  not 
only  misunderstanding  your  lover,  which  is  a  woman's  privi 
lege  ;  but  you  are  abusing  my  cousin,  which,  as  his  relative, 
I  won't  put  up  with. 

Jovita  \fassionately\  But  hear  me,  Miss  Mary.  It  is  a 
year  since  we  were  betrothed  ;  and  such  a  betrothal !  Why, 
I  was  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  to  him,  on  conditions, 
as  if  I  were  a  part  of  the  rancho  ;  and  the  very  night,  too,  I 
had  engaged  to  run  away  with  him  !  And  during  that  year 
I  have  seen  the  gentleman  twice, — yes,  twice  ! 

Miss  Mary.     But  he  has  written  ? 

Jovita.  Mother  of  God  !  Yes, — letters  delivered  by  my 
father,  sent  to  his  care,  read  by  him  first,  of  course ;  letters 
hoping  that  I  was  well,  and  obeying  my  father's  commands ; 
letters  assuring  me  of  his  unaltered  devotion ;  letters  that, 
compared  with  the  ones  he  used  to  hide  in  the  confessional 
of  the  ruined  mission  church,  were  as  ice  to  fire,  were  as  that 
snowflower  you  value  so  much,  Mary,  to  this  mariposa 
blossom  I  wear  in  my  hair.  And  then  to  think  that  this  man 
— this  John  Oakhurst,  as  I  knew  him ;  this  man  who  used 
to  ride  twenty  miles  for  a  smile  from  me  on  the  church  porch  ; 
this  Don  Juan  who  leaped  that  garden  wall  (fifteen  feet, 
Mary,  if  it  is  an  inch),  and  made  old  Concho  his  stepping 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  4 1 7 

stone  ;  this  man,  who  daily  perilled  death  for  my  sake — is 
changed  into  this  formal,  methodical  man  of  business — is — 
is — I  tell  you  there's  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it !  I  know 
it  sure  ! 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  How  can  I  tell  her  about  the 
Duchess  ?  I  won't !  [Aloud.']  But  listen,  my  dear  Jovita. 
You  know  he  is  under  probation  for  you,  Jovita.  All 
this  is  for  you.  His  father  is  cold,  methodical,  unsym 
pathetic.  He  looks  only  to  his  bond  with  this  son, — this  son 
that  he  treats,  even  in  matters  of  the  heart,  as  a  business 
partner.  Remember,  on  his  complete  reformation  and 
subjection  to  his  father's  will  depends  your  hand.  Re 
member  the  agreement ! 

Jovita.  The  agreement ;  yes  !  It  is  the  agreement, 
always  the  agreement.  May  the  devil  fly  away  with  the 
agreement  !  Look  you,  Miss  Mary,  I,  Dona  Jovita,  didn't 
fall  in  love  with  an  agreement :  it  was  with  a  man  !  Why, 
I  might  have  married  a  dozen  agreements — yes,  of  a  shorter 
limitation  than  this  !  [Crossing.] 

Miss  Mary.  Yes.  But  what  if  your  lover  had  failed  to 
keep  those  promises  by  which  he  was  to  gain  your  hand  ? 
what  if  he  were  a  man  incapable  of  self-control  ?  what  if  he 
were — a — a — drunkard  ! 

Jovita  [musing]  A  drunkard !  [Aside.]  There  was  Diego, 
he  was  a  drunkard;  but  he  was  faithless.  [Aloud.]  You 
mean,  a  weak,  faithless  drunkard  ? 

Miss  Mary.  No  !  [Sadly]  Faithless  only  to  himself, 
but  devoted — yes,  devoted  to  you. 

Jovita.  Miss  Mary,  I  have  found  that  one  big  vice  in  a 
man  is  apt  to  keep  out  a  great  many  smaller  ones. 

Miss  Mary.     Yes ;  but  if  he  were  a  slave  to  liquor  ? 

Jovita.  My  dear,  I  should  try  to  change  his  mistress. 
Oh,  give  me  a  man  that  is  capable  of  a  devotion  to  anything, 
rather  than  a  cold,  calculating  average  of  all  the  virtues  1 

VOL.  I.  2  D 


41 8  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  I,  who  aspire  to  be  her  teacher,  am 
only  her  pupil.  [Aloud.']  But  what  if,  in  this  very  drunken 
ness,  this  recklessness,  he  had  once  loved  and  worshipped 
another  woman  ?  What  if  you  discovered  all  this  after — 
after — he  had  won  your  heart  ? 

Jovita.  I  should  adore  him  !  Ah,  Miss  Mary  !  love 
differs  from  all  the  other  contagious  diseases ;  the  last  time 
a  man  is  exposed  to  it,  he  takes  it  most  readily,  and  has  it 
the  worst !  But  you,  you,  you  cannot  sympathise  with  me. 
You  have  some  lover,  the  ideal  of  the  virtues ;  some  man  as 
correct,  as  well  regulated,  as  calm  as — yourself;  some  one 
who  addresses  you  in  the  fixed  morality  and  severe  penman 
ship  of  the  copy-books.  He  will  never  precipitate  himself 
over  a  garden  wall  or  through  a  window.  Your  Jacob  will 
wait  for  you  through  seven  years,  and  receive  you  from  the 
hands  of  your  cousin  and  guardian — as  a  reward  of  merit ! 
No,  you  could  not  love  a  vagabond. 

Miss  Mary  [very  slowly  and  quietly].     No  ? 

Jovita.  No  !  [Passionately.']  You  are  good  :  No,  it  is 
impossible  !  Forgive  me,  Miss  Mary :  a  better  girl  than 
I  am.  But  think  of  me  !  A  year  ago  my  lover  leaped  a 
wall  at  midnight  to  fly  with  me :  to-day,  the  day  that  gives 
me  to  him,  he  writes  a  few  cold  lines  saying  that  he  has 
business,  business — you  understand — business,  and  that  he 
shall  not  see  me  until  we  meet  in  the  presence  of — of 
— of — our  fathers. 

Miss  Mary.  Yes  ;  but  you  will  see  him  at  least,  perhaps 
alone.  Listen  !  it  is  no  formal  meeting,  but  one  of  festivity. 
My  guardian  has  told  me,  in  his  quaint  scriptural  way,  it  is 
the  killing  of  the  fatted  calf  over  his  long-lost  prodigal. 
Have  patience,  little  one.  Ah  !  Jovita,  we  are  of  a  different 
race,  but  we  are  of  one  sex ;  and  as  a  woman  I  know  how 
to  accept  another  woman's  abuse  of  her  lover.  Come, 
come,  [Exeunt  Miss  MARY  and  JOVITA. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  4 1 9 


SCENE  5. — The  drawing-room  of  MR.  MORTON'S  villa. 
Large  open  arch  in  centre,  leading  to  veranda,  looking  on 
distant  view  of  San  Francisco ;  richly  furnished, — sofas, 
arm-chairs,  and  tete-ct-tete.  Enter  COL.  STARBOTTLE  c, 
carrying  bouquet,  preceded  by  SERVANT  bowing. 

Starbottle.  Take  my  kyard  to  Miss  Morris.  \Exit 
SERVANT.] 

Starbottle.  Star  !  this  is  the  momentous  epoch  of  your 
life  !  It  is  a  moment  for  which  you — are — I  may  say  alone 
responsible, — personally  responsible  !  She  will  be  naturally 
gratified  by  the — er — flowers.  She  will  at  once  recognise 
this  bouquet  as  a  delicate  souvenir  of  Red  Gulch,  and  will 
appreciate  your  recollection.  And  the  fact,  the  crushing 
fact,  that  you  have  overlooked  the — er — ungentlemanly 
conduct  of  her  own  cousin  Sandy,  the  real  Alexander 
Morton,  that  you  have — er — assisted  to  restore  the  ex-vaquero 
to  his  rights,  will — er — er — at  once  open  the  door  to — er — 
mutual  confidence  and — er — a  continuance  of  that — er — 
prepossession  I  have  already  noticed.  Ahem  !  here  she  is. 


Enter  Miss  MARY  in  full  dress. 

Miss  Mary.  You  are  early,  Col.  Starbottle.  This 
promptitude  does  honour  to  our  poor  occasion. 

Col.  Starbottle.  Ged,  Miss  Mary,  promptness  with  a  lady 
and  an  adversary  is  the  first  duty  of— er — gentleman.  I 
wished  that — er — the  morning  dew  might  still  be — er — fresh 
in  these  flowers.  I  gathered  them  myself  ^resenting  bouquei\ 
at — er — flower-stand  in  the — er — California  market. 

Miss  Mary  [aside].  Flowers  !  I  needed  no  such  reminder 
of  poor  Sandy.  [Aloud.]  I  thank  you,  Colonel 


42O  Two  Men  vf  Sandy  Bar. 

Starbottle.  Ged,  ma'am,  I  am  repaid  doubly.  Your 
conduct,  Miss  Mary,  reminds  me  of  little  incident  that 
occurred  at  Richmond  in  '53.  Dinner  party — came  early 
— but  obliged  to  go — as  now — on  important  business, 
before  dessert — before  dessert.  Lady  sat  next  to  me — 
beautiful  woman — excuse  me  if  I  don't  mention  names — 
said  to  me,  " Star,"— always  called  me  Star, — "Star,  you 
remind  me  of  the  month  of  May."  "  Ged,  madam,"  I 
said,  "  delighted,  proud;  but  why?"  "Because,"  she 
said,  "you  come  in  with  the— er — oysters."  No!  Ged, 
pardon  me — ridiculous  mistake  !  I  mean — er — "  you  come 
in  with  the — er — flowers,  and  go  before  the — er — fruits." 

Miss  Mary.  Ah,  Colonel !  I  appreciate  her  dis 
appointment  Let  us  hope,  however,  that  some  day  you 
may  find  that  happy  woman  who  will  be  able  to  keep  you 
through  the  whole  dinner  and  the  whole  season,  until 
December  and  the  ices  ! 

Starbottle.  Ged  !  excellent !  capital !  \seriou  sly  I\  Miss 
Mary  [suddenly  inflating  his  chest^  striking  attitude,  and 
gazing  on  Miss  MARY  with  languishing  eyes'].  There  is — 
er — such  a  woman  ! 

Miss  Mary  \as£de\.     What  can  he  mean  ? 

Starbottle  [taking  seat  beside  her\.  Allow  me,  Miss  Mary, 
a  few  moments  of  confidential — er — confidential  disclosure. 
To-day  is,  as  you  are  aware,  the  day  on  which,  according 
to — er — agreement  between  parties,  my  friend  and  client 
Mr.  Morton,  sen.,  formally  accepts  his  prodigal  son.  It  is 
my — er — duty  to  state  that — er — the  gentleman  who  has  for 
the  past  year  occupied  that  position  has  behaved  with  great 
discretion,  and — er — fulfilled  his  part  of  the — er — agreement 
But  it  would — er — appear  that  there  has  been  a — er — slight 
delusion  regarding  the  identity  of  that  prodigal, — a  delusion 
shared  by  all  the  parties  except,  perhaps,  myself.  I  have 
to  prepare  you  for  a  shock.  The  gentleman  whom  you 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  421 

have  recently  known  as  Alexander  Morton,  jun.,  is  not  the 
prodigal  son ;  is  not  your — er — cousin  ;  is,  in  fact,  no 
relation  to  you.  Prepare  yourself,  Miss  Mary,  for  a  little 
disappointment, — for — er — degradation.  r  'he  genuine  son 
has  been — er — discovered  in  the  person  of — er — low  menial 
— er — vagabond, — "  Sandy,"  the — er — outcast  of  Red 
Gulch ! 

Miss  Mary  [rising  in  astonishment].  Sandy!  Then  he 
was  right.  \Aside^\  The  child  is  his  !  and  that  woman — 

Starbottle.  Compose  yourself,  Miss  Mary.  I  know  the 
— er — effect  of — er — revelation  like  this  upon — er — proud 
and  aristocratic  nature.  Ged  !  my  own,  I  assure  you,  beats 
in — er — responsive  indignation.  You  can  never  consent  to 
remain  beneath  this  roof,  and — er — receive  a — er  vagabond 
and — er — menial  on  equal  terms.  The — er — necessities  of 
my — er — profession  may — er — compel  me ;  but  you  -er — 
never  !  Holding  myself — er — er — responsible  for  having 
introduced  you  here,  it  is  my — er — duty  to  provide  you 
with — another  home  !  It  is  my — er — duty  to  protect — 

Miss  Mary  \aside\  Sandy  here,  and  beneath  this  roof! 
Why  has  he  not  sought  me  ?  Ah !  I  know  too  well :  he 
dare  not  face  me  with  his  child  ! 

Starbottle  \aside\  She  turns  away  !  it  is  maiden  coyness. 
[Aloud.']  If,  Miss  Mary,  the — er — devotion  of  a  lifetime ;  if 
the — er — chivalrous  and  respectful  adoration  of  a  man — er 
— whose  record  is — er — not  unknown  in  the  Court  of 
Honour  [dropping  on  one  knee  with  excessive  gallantry] ;  if 
the — er — measure — 

Miss  Mary  [oblivious  of  COL.  STARBOTTLE].  I  will — I 
must  see  him  !  Ah  !  {looking  L.].he  is  coming ! 

Enter  SANDY. 

Starbottle  [rising  with  great  readiness  and  tact].  I  have 
found  it  [presenting  flower].  It  had  fallen  beneath  the  sofa. 


422  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  . 

Sandy  [to  Miss  MARY,  stopping  short  in  embarrassment]. 
I  did  not  know  you — I — I — thought  there  was  no  one 
here. 

Miss  Mary  [to  STARBOTTLE].  May  I  ask  you  to  excuse 
me  for  a  moment  ?  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to — to  my 
cousin  ! 

[STARBOTTLE  bows  gallantly  to  Miss  MARY,  and 
stiffly  to  SANDY,  and  exit  R.  A  long  pause.  Miss 
MARY  remains  seated  pulling  flowers,  SANDY 
remains  standing  by  wing  foolish  and  embarrassed- 
Business. 

Miss  Mary  [impatiently].     Well  ? 

Sandy  [slowly].  I  axes  your  pardon,  miss ;  but  you  told 
that  gentleman  you  had  a  few  words — to  say  to  me. 

Miss  Mary  [passionately,  aside].  Fool!  \Aloud^\  I  had; 
but  I  am  waiting  to  first  answei  your  inquiries  about  your — 
your — child.  I  have  fulfilled  my  trust,  sir. 

Sandy.     You  have,  Miss  Mary,  and  I  thank  you. 

Miss  Mary.  I  might  perhaps  have  expected  that  this 
revelation  of  our  kinship  would  have  come  from  other  lips 
than  a  stranger's;  but — no  matter!  I  wish  you  joy,  sir,  of  your 
heritage.  \_GoingJ]  You  have  found  a  home,  sir,  at  last,  for 
yourself  and — and — your  child.  Good  day,  sir. 

Sandy.     Miss  Mary ! 

Miss  Mary.  I  must  make  ready  to  receive  your  father's 
guests.  It  is  his  orders :  I  am  only  his  poor  relation. 
Good-bye,  sir.  [ExL  L. 

Sandy  [watching  her].  She  is  gone  ! — gone  !  No  !  She 
has  dropped  on  the  sofa  in  the  ante-room,  and  is  crying. 
Crying  !  I  promised  Jack  I  wouldn't  speak  until  the  time 
came.  I'll  go  back.  [.Hesitating  and  looking  towards  L.] 
Poor  girl !  how  she  must  hate  me  !  I  might  just  say  a  word, 
one  word  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness  to  Johnny, — only 
one  word,  and  then  go  away.  I — I — can  keep  from  liquor. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  423 

I  swore  I  would  to  Jack,  that  night  I  saw  the  old  man — 
drunk, — and  I  have.  But — I  can't  keep — from — her  !  No 
— damn  it !  \Going  toward  L.]  No  ! — I'll  go  !  \Exit  L. 


Enter  hurriedly  and  excitedly  Jo  VITA  R.,  followed  by 
MANUELA. 

Jovita.     Where  is  she  ?    Where  is  he  ? — the  traitor ! 

Manuela  \entreatingly\.  Compose  yourself,  Dona  Jovita, 
for  the  love  of  God  !  This  is  madness  :  believe  me,  there 
is  some  mistake.  It  is  some  trick  of  an  enemy, — of  that 
ingrate,  that  coyote,  Concho,  who  hates  the  Don  Alexandro. 

Jovita.  A  trick  !  Call  you  this  a  trick  ?  Look  at  this 
paper,  put  into  my  hands  by  my  father  a  moment  ago. 
Read  it.  Ah  !  listen.  [Reads.]  "  In  view  of  the  evident 
preference  of  my  son,  Alexander  Morton,  I  hereby  revoke 
my  consent  to  his  marriage  with  the  Dona  Jovita  Castro, 
and  accord  him  full  permission  to  woo  and  win  his  cousin, 
Miss  Mary  Morris  ! "  Call  you  this  a  trick,  eh  ?  No,  it  is 
their  perfidy  !  This  is  why  she  was  brought  here  on  the 
eve  of  my  betrothal.  This  accounts  for  his  silence,  his 
absence.  Oh,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 

Manuela.  Compose  yourself,  miss.  If  I  am  not  de 
ceived,  there  is  one  here  who  will  aid  us, — who  will  expose 
this  deceit.  Listen  !  an  hour  ago,  as  I  passed  through  the 
hall,  I  saw  Diego,  our  old  Diego, — your  friend  and  con 
fidant,  Diego. 

Jovita.     The  drunkard — the  faithless  Diego  ! 

Manuela.  Never,  Miss  Jovita ;  not  drunken  !  For,  as 
he  passed  before  me,  he  was  as  straight,  as  upright,  as  fine 
as  your  lover.  Come,  miss,  we  will  seek  him. 

Jovita.     Never  !     He  too  is  a  traitor. 

Manuela.  Believe  me,  no  !  Come,  Miss  Jovita.  [Look* 
ing  toward  L.]  See,  he  is  there.  Some  one  is  with  him. 


424  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Jovita  [looking].  You  are  right ;  and  it  is  she — she,  Miss 
Mary  !  What  ?  he  is  kissing  her  hand !  and  she — she,  the 
double  traitress — drops  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  !  Oh, 
this  is  infamy  ! 

Manuela.  Hush  !  Some  one  is  coming.  The  guests 
are  arriving.  They  must  not  see  you  thus.  This  way, 
Miss  Jovita, — this  way.  After  a  little,  a  little,  the  mystery 
will  be  explained.  [Taking  JOVITA'S  hand,  and  leading 
her  R.] 

Jovita  [going]  And  this  was  the  correct  schoolmistress, 
the  preceptress,  and  example  of  all  the  virtues !  ha ! 
[laughing  hysterically]  ha  ! 

[Exeunt  JOVITA  and  MANUELA. 


SCENE  6. — The  same.  Enter  SERVANT;  opens  folding-doors 
C.,  revealing  veranda,  and  view  of  distant  city  beyond. 
Stage,  fog  effect  from  without.  Enter  STARBOTTLE  and 
OAKHURST  R.,  in  full  evening  dress. 

Starbottle  [walking  towards  veranda].  A  foggy  evening 
for  our  anniversary. 

Oakhurst.  Yes.  [Aside]  It  was  such  a  night  as  this  I 
first  stepped  into  Sandy's  place,  I  first  met  the  old  man. 
Well,  it  will  be  soon  over.  [Aloud]  You  have  the  papers 
and  transfers  all  ready  ? 

Starbottle.  In  my — er — pocket.  Mr.  Morton,  sen., 
should  be  here  to  receive  his  guests. 

Oakhurst.  He  will  be  here  presently ;  until  then  the 
duty  devolves  on  me.  He  has  secluded  himself  even  from 
me !  [Aside.]  Perhaps  it  is  in  very  shame  for  his  recent 
weakness. 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  425 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant  Don  Jose  Castro,  Miss  Castro,  and  Miss 
Morris. 

Enter  DON  Jos£  with  JOVITA  and  Miss  MARY  on  either  arm. 
All  formally  salute  MR.  OAKHURST,  except  Miss  JOVITA, 
who  turns  coldly  away,  taking  seat  remotely  on  sofa.  COL. 
STARBOTTLE  gallantly  approaches  Miss  MARY,  and  takes 
seat  beside  her. 

Oakhurst  \aside~\.  They  are  here  to  see  my  punishment. 
There  is  no  sympathy  even  in  her  eyes. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.     Mr.  Concepcion  Garcia  and  Mr.  Capper. 
Concho  [approaching  OAKHURST,  rubbing  his  hands~\.     I 
wish  you  joy,  Mr.  Alexander  Morton  ! 

Oakhurst  [excitedly,  aside\.  Shall  I  throw  him  from  the 
window  ?  The  dog  ! — even  he  ! 

Capper  [approaching  MR.  OAKHURST].  You  have  done 
well.  Be  bold.  /  will  see  you  through.  As  for  that  man 
\fointing  to  CONCHO],  leave  him  to  me  ! 

[Lays  his  hand  on  CONCHO'S  shoulder,  and  leads  him 
to  sofa  R.  OAKHURST  takes  seat  in  chair  L.  as 
SANDY  enters  quietly  from  door  L.,  and  stands 
leaning  upon  his  chair. 

Starbottle  [rising].  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  are  waiting 
only  for  the  presence  of  Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  sen.  I 
regret  to  say  that  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours  he  has 
been — er — exceedingly  preoccupied  with  the  momentous 
cares  of  the — er — occasion.  You  who  know  the  austere 
habits  of  my  friend  and— er — client  will  probably  understand 
that  he  may  be  at  this  very  moment  engaged  in  prayerful 


4-26  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

and  Christian  meditation,  invoking  the  Throne  of  Grace, 
previous  to  the  solemn  duties  of — er — er — to-night. 

Enter  SERVANT. 
Servant.     Mr.  Alexander  Morton,  sen. 

Enter  OLD  MORTON,  drunk,  in  evening  costume,  cravat  awry, 
coat  half  buttoned  up,  and  half  surly,  half  idiotic  manner. 
All  rise  in  astonishment.  SANDY  starts  forward.  OAK- 
HURST  pulls  him  back. 

Morton  [thickly].  Don't  rish !  Don't  rish !  We'll  all 
sit  down  !  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  wish  ye  well,  miss. 
\_Goes  around  and  laboriously  shakes  hands  with  everybody^ 
Now  lesh  all  take  a  drink  !  lesh  you  take  a  drink,  and  you 
take  a  drink,  and  you  take  a  drink  ! 

Starbottle.  Permit  me,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to — er — 
explain  :  our  friend  is — er — evidently  labouring  under — er 
— er — accident  of  hospitality  !  In  a  moment  he  will  be 
himself. 

Old  Morton.  Hush  up  !  Dry  up — yourself — old  turkey- 
cock  !  Eh ! 

Sandy  [despairingly].  He  will  not  understand  us  !  [To 
STARBOTTLE.]  He  will  not  know  me  !  What  is  to  be 
done? 

Old  Morton.  Give  me  some  whishky.  Lesh  all  take  a 
drink  !  [Enter  SERVANT  with  decanter,  and  glasses^ 

Old  Morton  [starting  forward"].     Lesh  all  take  a  drink  I 

Sandy.     Stop ! 

Old  Morton  [recovering  himself  slightly].  Who  says  stop  ? 
Who  dares  countermand  my  orderish  ? 

Concho  [coming  forward].  Who  ?  I  will  tell  you  :  eh  ! 
eh !  Diego — dismissed  from  the  rancho  of  Don  Jose*  for 
drunkenness  !  Sandy— the  vagabond  of  Red  Gulch  ! 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  427 

Sandy  [passionately  seizing  OLD  MORTON'S  arni\.  Yes, 
Diego — Sandy — the  outcast— but,  God  help  me  !  no  longer 
the  drunkard  !  I  forbid  you  to  touch  that  glass  ! — I,  your 
son,  Alexander  Morton  !  Yes,  look  at  me,  father  :  I,  with 
drunkenness  in  my  blood,  planted  by  you,  fostered  by  you 
— I  whom  you  sought  to  save — I — I,  stand  here  to  save 
you  !  Go  !  [To  SERVANT.]  Go  !  While  he  is  thus,  I—/, 
am  master  here  ! 

Old  Morton  [cowed  and  frightened'}.  That  voice !  [Pass 
ing  his  hand  over  his  forehead.]  Am  I  dreaming?  Aleck, 
where  are  you  ?  Alexander,  speak,  I  command  you  :  is  this 
the  truth  ? 

Oakhurst  [slowly].     It  is  ! 

Starbottle.  One  moment — a  single  moment :  permit  me 
to — er — er — explain.  The  gentleman  who  has  just — er — 
dismissed  the  refreshment  is,  to  the  best  of  my  legal  know 
ledge,  your  son.  The  gentleman  who  for  the  past  year  has 
so  admirably  filled  the  functions  of  that  office  is — er — pre 
pared  to  admit  this.  The  proofs  are — er — conclusive.  It 
is  with  the — er — intention  of  offering  them,  and — er — 
returning  your  lawful  heir,  that  we — er — are  here  to-night. 

Old  Morton  [rising  to  his  feei\.     And  I  renounce  you 
both  !     Out  of  my  house,  out  of  my  sight,  out  of  my  heart, 
for  ever !     Go  !  liars,  swindlers,  confederates  !     Drunk — 
Oakhurst  [retiring  slowly  with  SANDY].    We  are  going,  sir ! 
Old  Morton.     Go !  open   the   doors   there  wide,   wide 
enough  for  such  a  breadth  of  infamy !     Do  you  hear  me  ? 
/  am  master  here  ! 

[Stands  erect,  as  OAKHURST  and  SANDY,  hand  in 
hand,  slowly  retreat  backward  to  centre, — then 
suddenly  utters  a  cry  and  falls  heavily  on  sofa. 
Both  pause.  OAKHURST  remains  quiet  and 
motionless ;  SANDY,  after  a  moments  hesitation,^ 
rushes  forward,  and  falls  at  his  feet. 


428  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

Sandy.     Father,  forgive  me  ! 

Old  Morton  {putting  his  hand  round  SANDY'S  neck,  and 
motioning  him  to  door].  Go  !  both  of  you,  both  of  you ! 
[Resisting  SANDY'S  attempt  to  rise.]  Did  you  hear  me? 
Go! 

Starbottle.  Permit  me  to  explain.  Your  conduct,  Mr. 
Morton,  reminds  me  of  sing'lar  incident  in  '47 — 

Old  Morton.     Silence  ! 

Oakhurst.  One  word,  Mr.  Morton  !  Shamed  and  dis 
graced  as  I  am,  I  leave  this  roof  more  gladly  than  I  entered 
it.  How  I  came  here,  you  best  know.  How  I  yielded 
madly  to  the  temptation,  the  promise  of  a  better  life ;  how  I 
fell,  through  the  hope  of  reformation, — no  one  should  kno\t 
better  than  you,  sir,  the  reformer.  I  do  not  ask  your  pardon. 
You  know  that  I  did  my  duty  to  you  as  your  presumed  son. 
Your  real  son  will  bear  witness  that,  from  the  hour  I  knew 
of  his  existence,  I  did  my  duty  equally  to  him.  Col.  Star- 
bottle  has  all  the  legal  transfers  and  papers  necessary  to 
make  the  restoration  of  your  son — the  integrity  of  your 
business  name- — complete.  I  take  nothing  out  of  this  life 
that  I  did  not  bring  in  it, — except  my  self-respect !  I  go — 
as  I  came — alone  ! 

Jovita  [rushing  toivards  hini\.  No  !  no  !  You  shall  take 
me !  I  have  wronged  you,  Jack,  cruelly ;  I  have  doubted 
you ;  but  you  shall  not  go  alone.  I  care  not  for  this  con 
tract  !  You  are  more  to  me,  by  your  own  right,  Jack,  than 
by  any  kinship  with  such  as  these  ! 

Oakhursf  [raising  her  gently].  I  thank  you,  darling.  But 
it  is  too  late  now.  To  be  more  worthy  of  you,  to  win  you> 
I  waived  the  title  I  had  to  you  in  my  own  manhood,  to 
borrow  another's  more  legal  claim.  I,  who  would  not  win 
you  as  a  gambler,  cannot  make  you  now  the  wife  of  a 
convicted  impostor.  No  !  Hear  me,  darling  !  do  not  make 
my  disgrace  greater  than  it  is.  In  the  years  to  come,  Jovita, 


Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  429 

think  of  me  as  one  who  loved  you  well  enough  to  go  through 
shame  to  win  you,  but  too  well  to  ask  you  to  share  with 
him  that  shame.  Farewell,  darling,  farewell !  [Releases 
himself  from  Jo  VITA'S  arms,  who  falls  beside  him.] 

Concha  [rubbing  his  hands,  and  standing  before  him~\.  Oho! 
Mr.  John  Oakhurst — eh — was  it  for  this,  eh — you  leaped 
the  garden  wall,  eh  ?  was  it  for  this  you  struck  me  down, 
eh  ?  You  are  not  wise,  eh  ?  You  should  have  run  away 
with  the  Dona  when  you  could — ah,  ah,  impostor  ! 

Sandy  [leaping  to  his  feet].  Jack,  you  shall  not  go  !  I 
will  go  with  you  ! 

Oakhurst.  No  !  Your  place  is  there  [fainting  to  OLD 
MORTON,  whose  head  has  sunk  drunkenly  on  his  breast  I\ 
Heed  not  this  man ;  his  tongue  carries  only  the  borrowed 
lash  of  his  master. 

Concha.  Eh !  you  are  bold  now — bold ;  but  I  said  I 
would  have  revenge — ah,  revenge  ! 

Sandy  [rushing  towards  hini\.     Coward  ! 

Don  Jose.  Hold  your  hand,  sir  !  Hold  !  I  allow  no 
one  to  correct  my  menials  but  myself.  Concho,  order  my 
carriage ! 

Concho.     It  is  ready,  sir. 

Don  Jose.  Then  lead  the  way  to  it,  for  my  daughter  and 
her  husband,  John  Oakhurst.  Good  night,  Mr.  Morton. 
I  can  sympathise  with  you ;  for  we  have  both  found  a  son. 
I  am  willing  to  exchange  my  dismissed  servant  for  your 
dismissed  partner. 

Starbotth  [advancing'].  Ged,  sir,  I  respect  you !  Ged, 
sir,  permit  me,  sir,  to  grasp  that  honourable  hand  ! 

Old  Morton  [excitedly].  He  is  right,  my  partner  !  What 
have  I  done !  The  house  of  Morton  &  Son  dissolved. 
The  man  known  as  my  partner — a  fugitive  I  No,  Alex 
ander  ! 

Starbottle.      One  moment — a  single  moment !      As  a 


430  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar. 

lawyer,  permit  me  to  say,  sir,  that  the  whole  complication 
may  be  settled,  sir,  by  the — er — addition  of— er — single 
letter !  The  house  of  Morton  &  Son  shall  hereafter  read 
Morton  &  Sons.  The  papers  for  the  legal  adoption  of  Mr. 
Oakhurst  are — er — in  my  pocket. 

Old  Morton  [more  soberly].  Have  it  your  own  way,  sir  ! 
Morton  &  Sons  be  it.  Hark  ye,  Don  Jos£ !  We  are 
equal  at  last.  But — hark  ye,  Aleck  !  How  about  the 
boy,  eh  ? — my  grandson,  eh  ?  Is  this  one  of  the  sons  by 
adoption  ? 

Sandy  \embarrassedly\.     It  is  my  own,  sir. 

Capper  [advancing.  He  can  with  safety  claim  it;  for 
the  mother  is  on  her  way  to  Australia  with  her  husband. 

Old  Morton.     And  the  schoolma'am,  eh  ? 

Miss  Mary.  She  will  claim  the  usual  year  of  probation 
for  your  prodigal,  and  then — 

Sandy.     God  bless  ye,  Miss  Mary  ! 

Old  Morton.  I  am  in  a  dream  !  But  the  world — my 
friends — my  patrons — how  can  I  explain  ? 

Starbottle.  I  will — er — explain.  [Advancing  slowly  to 
front — to  audience.]  One  moment — er — a  single  moment! 
If  anything  that  has — er — transpired  this  evening — might 
seem  to  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen — er — morally  or — er — 
legally — or  honourably  to  require — er — apology  or — er — 
explanation ! — permit  me  to  say — that  I,  Col.  Cul pepper 
Starbottle,  hold  myself  responsible  —  er  —  personally  re 
sponsible. 

Capper.  Concho. 

Old  Morton.  Sandy.  Miss  Mary.  Don  Jose".  Jovita.  Oakhurst. 
Col.  Starbottle. 


Catiet 


CANTO  I. 

i. 

ACT  first,  scene  first.     A  study.     Of  a  kind 

Half  cell,  half  salon,  opulent  yet  grave  ; 
Rare  books,  low  shelved,  yet  far  above  the  mind 

Of  common  man  to  compass  or  to  crave ; 
Some  slight  relief  of  pamphlets  that  inclined 

The  soul  at  first  to  trifling,  till  dismayed 
By  text  and  title,  it  drew  back  resigned, 

Nor  cared  with  levity  to  vex  a  shade. 

That  to  itself  such  perfect  concord  made. 

ii. 

Some  thoughts  like  these  perplexed  the  patriot  brain 
Of  Jones — Lawgiver  to  the  Commonwealth, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  this  chaste  domain 

He  paused  expectant,  and  looked  up  in  stealth 

To  darkened  canvases  that  frowned  amain, 
With  stern-eyed  Puritans,  who  first  began 

To  spread  their  roots  in  "  Georgius  Primus ' "  reign, 
Nor  dropped  till  now,  obedient  to  some  plan, 
Their  century  fruit — the  perfect  Boston  maa 

in. 

Somewhere  within  that  Russia-scented  gloom 
A  voice  catarrhal  thrilled  the  Member's  ear ; 


43 2  Cadet  Grey. 

"Brief   is   our  business,   Jones.      Look  round   this 
room  ! 

Regard  yon  portraits  !     Read  their  meaning  clear  ! 
These  much  proclaim  '  my '  station.     I  presume 

You  are  our  Congressman,  before  whose  wit 
And  sober  judgment  shall  the  youth  appear 

Who  for  West  Point  is  deemed  most  just  and  fit 

To  serve  his  country  and  to  honour  it." 

IV. 

sl  Such  is  my  son  !     Elsewhere  perhaps  'twere  wise 

Trial  competitive  should  guide  your  choice. 
There  are  some  people  I  can  well  surmise 

Themselves    must    show    their    merits.      History's 

voice 
Spares  me  that  trouble,  all  desert  that  lies 

In  yonder  ancestor  of  Queen  Anne's  day, 
Or  yon  grave  Governor — is  all  my  boy's, 

Reverts  to  him  ;  entailed,  as  one  might  say ; 

In  brief,  result  in  Winthrop  Adams  Grey  ! " 

v. 

He  turned  and  laid  his  well-bred  hand,  and  smiled, 
On  the  cropped  head  of  one  who  stood  beside. 

Ah  me  !  in  sooth  it  was  no  ruddy  child, 

Nor  brawny  youth  that  thrilled  the  father's  pride — 

'Twas  but  a  Mind  that  somehow  had  beguiled 
From  soulless  Matter  processes  that  served 

For  speech  and  motion  and  digestion  mild, 
Content  if  all  one  moral  purpose  nerved, 
Nor  recked  thereby  its  spine  were  somewhat  curved 

VI. 

He  was  scarce  eighteen.     Yet  ere  he  was  eight 
He  had  despoiled  the  classics ;  much  he  knew 


Cadet  Grey.  433 

Of  Sanscrit ;  not  that  he  placed  undue  weight 
On  this,  but  that  it  helped  him  with  Hebrew, 

His  favourite  tongue.     He  learned,  alas  !  too  late, 
One  can't  begin  too  early — would  regret 

That  boyish  whim  to  ascertain  the  state 
Of  Venus'  atmosphere  made  him  forget 
That  philologic  goal  on  which  his  soul  was  set. 

VII. 

He  too  had  travelled  ;  at  the  age  of  ten 
Found  Paris  empty,  dull  except  for  art 

And  accent.     " Mabille"  with  its  glories  then 
Less  than  Egyptian  "Almees  "  touched  a  heart 

Nothing  if  not  pure  classic.     If  some  men 
Thought  him  a  prig,  it  vexed  not  his  conceit, 

But  moved  his  pity,  and  ofttimes  his  pen, 

The  better  to  instruct  them,  through  some  sheet 
Published  in  Boston,  and  signed  "  Beacon  Street." 

VIII. 

From  premises  so  plain  the  blind  could  see 
But  one  deduction,  and  it  came  next  day. 

"  In  times  like  these,  the  very  name  of  G. 
Speaks  volumes,"  wrote  the  Honourable  J. 

"Enclosed  please  find  appointment."     Presently 
Came  a  reception  to  which  Harvard  lent 

Fourteen  professors,  and,  to  give  "  esprit? 
The  Liberal  Club  some  eighteen  ladies  sent, 
Five  that  spoke  Greek,  and  thirteen  sentiment 

IX. 

Four  poets  came  who  loved  each  others'  song, 

And  two  philosophers,  who  thought  that  they 
VOL.  i.  a  E 


434  Cadet  Grey. 

Were  in  most  things  impractical  and  wrong ; 

And  two  Reformers,  each  in  his  own  way 
Peculiar — one  who  had  waxed  strong 

On  herbs  and  water,  and  such  simple  fare ; 
Two  foreign  lions,  "  Ram  See  "  and  "  Chy  Long," 

And  several  artists  claimed  attention  there, 

Based  on  the  fact  they  had  been  snubbed  else 
where. 

x,  . 

With  this  endorsement  nothing  now  remained 

But  counsel,  God  speed,  and  some  calm  adieux ; 
No  foolish  tear  the  father's  eyelash  stained, 

And  Winthrop's  cheek  as  guiltless  shone  of  dew. 
A  slight  publicity,  such  as  obtained 

In  classic  Rome,  these  few  last  hours  attended. 
The  day  arrived,  the  train  and  depot  gained, 

The    mayor's   own    presence    this    last    act    com 
mended ; 

The  train  moved  off,  and  here  the  first  act  ended. 


CANTO  II, 

i. 

Where  West  Point  crouches,  and  with  lifted  shield 
Turns  the  whole  river  eastward  through  the  pass  ; 

Whose  jutting  crags,  half  silver,  stand  revealed 
Like  "bossy  bucklers  of  Leonidas  ; 

Where  buttressed  low  against  the  storms  that  wield 
Their  summer  lightnings  where  her  eaglets'  swarm, 

By  Freedom's  cradle  Nature's  self  has  steeled 
Her  heart,  like  Winkelried,  and  to  that  storm 
Of  levelled  lances  bares  her  bosom  warm. 


Cadet  Grey.  435 

ii. 

But  not  to-night.     The  air  and  woods  are  still, 

The  faintest  rustle  in  the  trees  below, 
The  lowest  tremor  from  the  mountain  rill, 

Come  to  the  ear  as  but  the  trailing  flow 
Of  spirit  robes  that  walk  unseen  the  hill ; 

The  moon  low  sailing  o'er  the  upland  farm, 
The  moon  low  sailing  where  the  waters  fill 

The  lozenge  lake,  beside  the  banks  of  balm, 

Gleams  like  a  chevron  on  the  river's  arm. 

in. 

All  space  breathes  languor ;  from  the  hill-top  high, 
Where  Putnam's  bastion  crumbles  in  the  past, 

To  swooning  depths  where  drowsy  cannon  lie 

And  wide-mouthed  mortars  gape  in  slumbers  vast  j 

Stroke  upon  stroke,  the  far  oars  glance  and  die 
On  the  hushed  bosom  of  the  sleeping  stream ; 

Bright  for  one  moment  drifts  a  white  sail  by, 
Bright  for  one  moment  shows  a  bayonet  gleam 
Far  on  the  level  plain,  then  passes  as  a  dream. 

IV. 

Soft  down  the  line  of  darkened  battlements, 
Bright  on  each  lattice  of  the  barrack  walls, 

Where  the  low  arching  sallyport  indents, 

Seen    through  its  gloom  beyond,  the    moonbeam 
falls. 

All  is  repose  save  where  the  camping  tents 

Mock  the  white  gravestones  farther  on,  where  sound 

No  morning  guns  for  "reveille?  nor  whence 

No  drum-beat  calls  retreat,  but  still  is  ever  found 
Waiting  and  present  on  each  sentry's  round. 


436  Cadet  Grey, 

v. 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  the  young,  the  brave, 
Half  knight,  half  schoolboy,  acolytes  of  fame, 

Pledged  to  one  altar,  and  perchance  one  grave ; 
Bred  to  fear  nothing  but  reproach  and  blame, 

Ascetic  dandies  o'er  whom  vestals  rave, 

Clean-limbed    young    Spartans,    disciplined    young 
elves, 

Taught  to  destroy,  that  they  may  live  to  save, 
Students  embattled,  soldiers  at  their  shelves, 
Heroes  whose  conquests  are  at  first  themselves. 

VI. 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  in  dreams  are  freed 

From  the  grim  discipline  they  learn  to  love ; 
In  dreams  no  more  the  sentry's  challenge  heed, 

In  dreams  afar  beyond  their  pickets  rove  ; 
One  treads  once  more  the  piney  paths  that  lead 

To  his  green  mountain  home,  and  pausing  hears 
The  cattle  call ;  one  treads  the  tangled  weed 

Of  slippery  rocks  beside  Atlantic  piers  ; 

One  smiles  in  sleep,  one  wakens  wet  with  tears. 

VII. 

One  scents  the  breath  of  jasmine  flowers  that  twine 
The  pillared  porches  of  his  Southern  home  j 

One  hears  the  coo  of  pigeons  in  the  pine 

Of  Western  woods  where  he  was  wont  to  roam ; 

One  sees  the  sunset  fire  the  distant  line 

Where  the  long  prairie  sweeps  its  levels  down ; 

One  treads  the  snowpeaks ;  one  by  lamps  that  shine 
Down  the  broad  highways  of  the  sea-girt  town, 
And  two  are  missing — Cadets  Grey  and  Brown  ! 


Cadet  Grey.  437 

VIII. 

Much  as  I  grieve  to  chronicle  the  fact, 

That  self-same  truant  known  as  "  Cadet  Grey  " 
Was  the  young  hero  of  our  moral  tract, 

Shorn  of  his  twofold  names  on  entrance-day. 
"  Winthrop  "  and  "  Adams  "  dropped  in  that  one  act 

Of  martial  curtness,  and  the  roll-call  thinned 
Of  his  ancestors,  he  with  youthful  tact 

Indulgence    claimed,    since    Winthrop     no    more 
sinned, 

Nor  sainted  Adams  winced  when  he,  plain  Grey  was 
"skinned." 

IX. 

He  had  known  trials  since  we  saw  him  last, 

By  sheer  good  luck  had  just  escaped  rejection, 
Not  for  his  learning,  but  that  it  was  cast 

In  a  spare  frame  scarce  fit  for  drill  inspection ;  . 
But  when  he  ope'd  his  lips  a  stream  so  vast 

Of  information  flooded  each  professor, 
They  quite  forgot  his  eyeglass — something  past 

All  precedent — accepting  the  transgressor,  . 

Weak  eyes  and  all  of  which  he  was  possessor. 

x. 

E'en  the  first  day  he  touched  a  blackboard's  space — 

So  the  tradition  of  his  glory  lingers — 
Two  wise  professors  fainted,  each  with  face 

White  as  the  chalk  within  his  rapid  fingers : 
All  day  he  ciphered,  at  such  frantic  pace, 

His  form  was  hid  in  chalk  precipitation 
Of  every  problem,  till  they  said  his  case 

Could  meet  from  them  no  fair  examination 

Till  Congress  made  a  new  appropriation. 


438  Cadet  Grey. 

XL 

Famous  in  molecules,  he  demonstrated 

From  the  mess  hash  to  many  a  listening  classful ; 

Great  as  a  botanist,  he  separated 
Three  kinds  of  "  Mentha  "  in  one  julep's  glassful ; 

High  in  astronomy,  it  has  been  stated 
He  was  the  first  at  West  Point  to  discover 

Mars'  missing  satellites,  and  calculated 
Their  true  positions,  not  the  heavens  over, 
But  'neath  the  window  of  Miss  Kitty  Rover. 

XII. 

Indeed  I  fear  this  novelty  celestial 

That  very  night  was  visible  and  clear ; 
At  least  two  youths  of  aspect  most  terrestrial, 

And  clad  in  uniform,  were  loitering  near 
A  villa's  casement,  where  a  gentle  vestal 

Took  their  impatience  somewhat  patiently, 
Knowing    the    youths    were    somewhat    green    and 
"bestial"— 

(A  certain  slang  of  the  Academy, 

I  beg  the  reader  won't  refer  to  me). 

xni. 

For  when  they  ceased  their  ardent  strain,  Miss  Kitty 
Glowed  not  with  anger  nor  a  kindred  flame, 

But  rather  flushed  with  an  odd  sort  of  pity, 

Half  matron's  kindness,  and  half  coquette's  shame ; 

Proud  yet  quite  blameful,  when  she  heard  their  ditty 
She  gave  her  soul  poetical  expression, 

And  being  clever  too,  as  she  was  pretty, 

From  her  high  casement  warbled  this  confession- 
Half  provocation  and  one  half  repression  : — 


Cadet  Grey.  439 

NOT  YET. 

Not  yet,  O  friend,  not  yet !  the  patient  stars 
Lean  from  their  lattices,  content  to  wait. 
All  is  illusion  till  the  morning  bars 
Slip  from  the  levels  of  the  Eastern  gate. 
Night  is  too  young,  O  friend  !  day  is  too  near  ; 
Wait  for  the  day  that  maketh  all  things  clear. 
Not  yet,  O  friend,  not  yet ! 

Not  yet,  O  love,  not  yet !  all  is  not  true, 
All  is  not  ever,  as  it  seemeth  now. 
Soon  shall  the  river  take  another  blue, 
Soon  dies  yon  light  upon  the  mountain  brow. 
What  lieth  dark,  O  love,  bright  day  will  filL 
Wait  for  thy  morning,  be  it  good  or  ill—  \ 
Not  yet,  O  love,  not  yet ! 

XIV. 
The  strain  was  finished ;  softly  as  the  night 

Her  voice  died  from  the  window,  yet  e'en  then 
Fluttered  and  fell  likewise  a  kerchief  white ; 

But  that  no  doubt  was  accident,  for  when 
She  sought  her  couch  she  deemed  her  conduct  quite 

Beyond  the  reach  of  scandalous  commentor — 
Washing  her  hands  of  either  gallant  wight 

Knowing  the  moralist  might  compliment  her — 

Thus  voicing  Siren  with  the  words  of  Mentor. 

xv. 
She  little  knew  the  youths  below,  who  straight 

Dived  for  her  kerchief,  and  quite  overlooked 
The  pregnant  moral  she  would  inculcate ; 

Nor  dreamed  the  less  how  little  Winthrop  brooked 
Her  right  to  doubt  his  soul's  maturer  state. 

Brown — who  was  Western,  amiable,  and  new — 
Might  take  the  moral  and  accept  his  fate ; 

The  which  he  did,  but,  being  stronger  too, 

Took  the  white  kerchief,  also,  as  his  due. 


44°  Cadet  Grey. 

XVI. 

They  did  not  quarrel,  which  no  doubt  seemed  queer 
To    those   who    knew   not    how    their    friendship 
blended ; 

Each  were  opposed,  and  each  the  other's  peer, 
Yet  each  other  in  some  things  transcended. 

Where  Brown  lacked  culture,  brains — and  oft,  I  fear, 
Cash  in  his  pocket — Grey  of  course  supplied  him ; 

Where     Grey   lacked    frankness,     force,     and     faith 

sincere, 

Brown  of  his  manhood  suffered  none  to  chide  him, 
But  in  his  faults  stood  manfully  beside  him. 

XVII. 

In  academic  walks  and  studies  grave, 

In  the  camp  drill  and  martial  occupation, 

They  helped  each  other ;  but  just  here  I  crave 
Space  for  the  reader's  full  imagination — 

The  fact  is  patent,  Grey  became  a  slave  ! — 
A  tool,  a  fag,  a  "  pleb  ! "     To  state  it  plainer, 

All  that  blue  blood  and  ancestry  e'er  gave, 

Cleaned  guns,  brought  water ! — was,  in  fact,  retainer 
To  Jones,  whose  uncle  was  a  paper-stainer ! 

XVI II. 

How  they  bore  this  at  home  I  cannot  say : 

I  only  know  so  runs  the  gossip's  tale. 
It  chanced  one  day  that  the  paternal  Grey 

Came  to  West  Point  that  he  himself  might  hail 
The  future  hero  in  some  proper  way 

Consistent  with  his  lineage.     With  him  came 
A  judge,  a  poet,  and  a  brave  array 

Of  aunts  and  uncles,  bearing  each  a  name, 

Eyeglass  and  respirator  with  the  same. 


Cadet  Grey.  441 

XIX. 

"  Observe  ! "  quoth  Grey  the  elder  to  his  friends, 

"  Not  in  these  giddy  youths  at  base-ball  playing 
You'll  notice  Winthrop  Adams  !     Greater  ends 

Than  these  absorb  his  leisure.     No  doubt  straying 
With  Caesar's  Commentaries,  he  attends 

Some  Roman  council.     Let  us  ask,  however, 
Yon  grimy  urchin,  who  my  soul  offends 

By  wheeling  offal,  if  he  will  endeavour 

To  find What !  heaven  !  Winthrop  !     Oh  !  no  ! 

never  ! " 

xx. 

Alas  I  too  true  !     The  last  of  all  the  Greys 
Was  "  doing  police  detail ; "  it  had  come 

To  this ;  in  vain  were  the  historic  bays 

That  crowned  the  pictured  Puritans  at  home ! 

And  yet  'twas  certain  that  in  grosser  ways 

Of  health  and  physique  he  was  quite  improving. 

Straighter  he  stood,  and  had  achieved  some  praise 
In  other  exercise,  much  more  behooving 
A  soldier's  taste  than  merely  dirt  removing. 

XXI. 

But  to  resume  :  we  left  the  youthful  pair, 
Some  stanzas  back,  before  a  lady's  bower; 

'Tis  to  be  hoped  they  were  no  longer  there, 
For  stars  were  pointing  to  the  morning  hour 

Their  escapade  discovered,  ill  'twould  fare 
With  our  two  heroes,  derelict  of  orders  ; 

But,  like  the  ghost,  they  "  scent  the  morning  air," 
And  back  again  they  steal  across  the  borders, 
Unseen,  unheeded,  by  their  martial  warders. 


442  Cadet  Grey. 

XXII. 

They  got  to  bed  with  speed  :  young  Grey  to  dream 
Of  some  vague  future  with  a  general's  star, 

And  Mistress  Kitty  basking  in  its  gleam ; 
While  Brown,  content  to  worship  her  afar, 

Dreamed  himself  dying  by  some  lonely  stream, 
Having  snatched  Kitty  from  eighteen  Nez  Perces, 

Till  a  far  bugle,  with  the  morning  beam, 
In  his  dull  ear  its  fateful  song  rehearses, 
Which  Winthrop  Adams  after  put  to  verses. 

XXIII. 

So  passed  three  years  of  their  noviciate, 

The  first  real  boyhood  Grey  had  ever  known. 

His  youth  ran  clear — not  choked  like  his  Cochituate, 
In  civic  pipes,  but  free  and  pure  alone ; 

Yet  knew  repression,  could  himself  habituate 
To  having  mind  and  body  well  rubbed  down, 

Could  read  himself  in  others,  and  could  situate 
Themselves  in  him — except,  I  grieve  to  own, 
He  couldn't  see  what  Kitty  saw  in  Brown  ! 

XXIV. 

At  last  came  graduation ;  Brown  received 
In  the  One  Hundredth  Cavalry  commission  • 

Then  frolic,  flirting,  parting — when  none  grieved 
Save  Brown,  who  loved  our  young  Academician, 

And  Grey,  who  felt  his  friend  was  still  deceived 
By  Mistress  Kitty,  who  with  other  beauties 

Graced  the  occasion,  and  it  was  believed 

Had  promised  Brown  that  when  he  could  recruit  his 
Promised  command,  she'd  share  with  him  those  duties, 

XXV. 

Howe'er  this  I  know  not ;  all  I  know, 
The  night  was  June's,  the  moon  rode  high  and  clear, 


Cadet  Grey.  443 

"  'Twas  such  a  night  as  this  " — three  years  ago 
Miss  Kitty  sang  the  song  that  two  might  hear. 

There  is  a  walk  where  trees  overarching  grow, 
Too  wide  for  one,  not  wide  enough  for  three 

(A  fact  precluding  any  plural  beau), 

Which  quite  explained  Miss  Kitty's  company, 
But  not  why  Grey  that  favoured  one  should  be. 

XXVI 

There  is  a  spring,  whose  limpid  waters  hide 
Somewhere  within  the  shadows  of  that  path 

Called  Kosciusko's.     There  two  figures  bide — 
Grey  and  Miss  Kitty.     Surely  Nature  hath 

No  fairer  mirror  for  a  might-be  bride 

Than  this  same  pool  that  caught  our  gentle  belle 

To  its  dark  heart  one  moment.     At  her  side 

Grey  bent.     A  something  trembled  o'er  the  well, 
Bright,  spherical — a  tear  ?     Ah  !  no,  a  button  fell ! 

XXVII. 

"  Material  minds  might  think  that  gravitation/' 

Quoth  Grey,  "  drew  yon  metallic  spheroid  down. 
The  soul  poetic  views  the  situation 

Fraught  with  more  meaning.     When  thy  girlish  crown 
Was  mirrored  there,  there  was  disintegration 

Of  me,  and  all  my  spirit  moved  to  you, 
Taking  the  form  of  slow  precipitation  !  " — 

But  here  came  "  Taps,"  a  start,  a  smile,  adieu  I  » 

A  blush,  a  sigh,  and  end  of  Canto  II. 

BUGLE  SONG. 

Fades  the  light,  Love,  good  night ! 

And  afar  Must  thou  go 

Goeth  day,  cometh  night  When  the  day 

And  a  star  And  the  light 

Leadeth  all,  Need  thee  so— 

Speedeth  all  Needeth  all 

To  their  rest !  Heedeth  all, 

That  is  best? 


444  Cadet  Grey. 


CANTO  III. 

i. 

Where  the  sun  sinks  through  leagues  of  arid  sky, 
Where  the  sun  dies  o'er  leagues  of  arid  plain, 

Where  the  dead  bones  of  wasted  rivers  lie, 

Trailed  from  their  channels  in  yon  mountain  chain ; 

Where  day  by  day  naught  takes  the  wearied  eye 
But  the  low-rimming  mountains,  sharply  based 

On  the  dead  levels,  moving  far  or  nigh, 
As  the  sick  vision  wanders  o'er  the  waste, 
But  ever  day  by  day  against  the  sunset  traced : 

ii. 
There  moving  through  a  poisonous  cloud  that  stings 

With  dust  of  alkali  the  trampling  band 
Of  Indian  ponies,  ride  on  dusky  wings 

The  red  marauders  of  the  Western  land  ; 
Heavy  with  spoil,  they  seek  the  trail  that  brings 

Their  flaunting  lances  to  that  sheltered  bank 
Where  lie  their  lodges  ;  and  the  river  sings 

Forgetful  of  the  plain  beyond,  that  drank 

Its  life  blood,  where  the  wasted  caravan  sank. 

in. 
They  brought  with  them  the  thief's  ignoble  spoil, 

The  beggar's  dole,  the  greed  of  chiffonier, 
The  scum-  of  camps,  the  implements  of  toil 

Snatched  from  dead  hands,  to  rust  as  useless  here ; 
All  they  could  rake  or  glean  from  hut  or  soil 

Piled  their  lean  ponies,  with  the  jackdaw's  greed 
For  vacant  glitter.     It  were  scarce  a  foil 

To  all  this  tinsel  that  one  feathered  reed 

Bore  on  its  barb  two  scalps  that  freshly  bleed  I 


Cadet  Grey.  445 

IV. 

They  brought  with  them,  alas  !  a  wounded  foe, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  yet  nursed  with  cruel  care, 

Lest  that  in  death  he  might  escape  one  throe 
They  had  decreed  his  living  flesh  should  bear : 

A  youthful  officer,  by  one  foul  blow 

Of  treachery  surprised,  yet  fighting  still 

Amid  his  ambushed  train,  calm  as  the  snow 
Above  him ;  hopeless,  yet  content  to  spill 
His  blood  with  theirs,  and  righting  but  to  kilL 

v. 

He  had  fought  nobly,  and  in  that  brief  spell 

Had  won  the  awe  of  those  rude  border  men 
Who  gathered  round  him,  and  beside  him  fell 

In  loyal  faith  and  silence,  save  that  when 
By  smoke  embarrassed,  and  near  sight  as  well, 

He  paused  to  wipe  his  eyeglass,  and  decide 
Its  nearer  focus,  there  arose  a  yell 

Of  approbation,  and  Bob  Barker  cried 

"  Wade  in,  Dundreary  ! "  tossed  his  cap  and — died. 


VI. 

Their  sole  survivor  now  !  his  captors  bear 
Him  all  unconscious,  and  beside  the  stream 

Leave  him  to  rest ;  meantime  the  squaws  prepare 
The  stake  for  sacrifice  :  nor  wakes  a  gleam 

Of  pity  in  those  Furies'  eyes  that  glare 
Expectant  of  the  torture  ;  yet  alway 

His  steadfast  spirit  shines  and  mocks  them  there 
With  peace  they  know  not,  till  at  close  of  day 
On  his  dull  ear  there  thrills  a  whispered  "  Grey  ! 


446  Cadet  Grey. 

VII. 

He  starts  !     Was  it  a  trick  ?     Had  angels  kind 

Touched    with    compassion    some   weak   woman's 

breast  ? 
Such  things  he'd  read  of !     Faintly  to  his  mind 

Came  Pocohontas  pleading  for  her  guest 
But  then  this  voice,  though  soft,  was  still  inclined 

To  baritone  !     A  squaw  in  ragged  gown 
Stood  near  him  frowning  hatred.      Was  he  blind  ? 

Whose  eye  was  this  beneath  that  beetling  frown  ? 

The  frown  was   painted,   but    that   wink  meant — 
Brown ! 

VIII. 

"  Hush  !  for  your  life  and  mine  !  the  thongs  are  cut," 
He  whispers  ;  "  in  yon  thicket  stands  my  horse, 

One  dash  ! — I  follow  close,  as  if  to  glut 

My  own  revenge,  yet  bar  the  other's  course. 

Now  ! "     And  'tis  done.     Grey  speeds,  Brown  follows ; 
but 

Ere  yet  they  reach  the  shade,  Grey,  fainting,  reels — 

Yet  not  before  Brown's  circling  arms  close  shut 
His  in,  uplifting  him  !     Anon  he  feels 
A  horse  beneath  him  bound,  and  hears  the  rattling 
heels. 

IX. 

Then  rose  a  yell  of  baffled  hate,  and  sprang 
Headlong  the  savages  in  swift  pursuit ; 

Though  speed  the  fugitives,  they  hope  to  hang 
Hot  on  their  heels,  like  wolves,  with  tireless  foot. 

Long  is  the  chase  \  Brown  hears  with  inward  pang 
The  short,  hard  panting  of  his  gallant  steed 

Beneath  its  double  burden ;  vainly  rang 


Cadet  Grey.  447 

Both   voice   and   spur.     The   heaving  flanks   may 

bleed, 
Yet  comes  the  sequel  that  they  still  must  heed  ! 

x. 

Brown  saw  it — reined  his  steed  ;  dismounting,  stood 

Calm  and  inflexible.    "  Old  chap  !  you  see 
There  is  but  one  escape.     You  know  it  ?     Good  ! 

There  is  one  man  to  take  it.     You  are  he, 
The  horse  won't  carry  double.     If  he  could, 

'Twould  but  protract  this  bother.     I  shall  stay  : 
I've  business  with  these  devils — they  with  me ; 

I  will  occupy  them  till  you  get  away. 

Hush  !  quick  time,  forward.     There  !     God  bless 
you,  Grey  ! " 

XI. 

But  as  he  finished,  Grey  slipped  to  his  feet, 
Calm  as  his  ancestors  in  voice  and  eye  : 
You  do  forget  yourself  when  you  compete 
With  him  whose  right  it  is  to  stay  here  and  to  die : 

That's  not  your  duty.     Please  regain  your  seat : 
And  take  my  orders — since  I  rank  you  here  ! — 

Mount  and  rejoin  your  men,  and  my  defeat 
Report  at  quarters.     Take  this  letter ;  ne'er 
Give   it  to   aught  but  her>   though   death  should 
interfere." 

XII. 

And,  shamed  and  blushing,  Brown  the  letter  took 

Obediently  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket, 
Then  drawing  forth  another,  said,  "  I  look 

For  death  as  you  do,  wherefore  take  this  locket 
And  letter."     Here  his  comrade's  hand  he  shook 

In  silence.     "  Should  we  both  together  fall, 
Some  other  man  " — but  here  all  speech  forsook 


448  Cadet  Grey. 

His  lips,  as  ringing  cheerily  o'er  all 
He  heard  afar  his  own  dear  bugle-call ! 

XIII. 

Twas  his  command  and  succour,  but  e'en  then 
Grey  fainted,  with  poor  Brown,  who  had  forgot 

He  likewise  had  been  wounded,  and  both  men 
Were  picked  up  quite  unconscious  of  their  lot. 

Long  lay  they  in  extremity,  and  when 

They  both  grew  stronger,  and  once  more  exchanged 

Old  vows  and  memories,  one  common  "  den  " 
In  hospital  was  theirs,  and  free  they  ranged, 
Awaiting  orders,  but  no  more  estranged. 

XIV. 

And  yet  'twas  strange — nor  can  I  end  my  tale 
Without  this  moral,  to  be  fair  and  just : 

They  never  sought  to  know  why  each  did  fail 
The  prompt  fulfilment  of  the  other's  trust. 

It  was  suggested  they  could  not  avail 
Themselves  of  either  letter,  since  they  were 

Duly  dispatched  to  their  address  by  mail 
By  Captain  X.,  who  knew  Miss  Rover  fair 
Now  meant  stout  Mistress  Bloggs  of  Blank  Blank 
Square. 


END   OF  VOL.    L 


STANDARD  AND  POPULAR 


SELECTED  FROM  THE  CATALOGUE   OF 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  CO. 


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I 


